Red Wine

The divorce was final…finally. It had taken a year and a half of waiting including one year of separation and another 6 months of waiting for the paperwork. But the ink was dry and I was free.

Ten years ago I would never have considered this outcome. We had been a couple of 30 year olds, happy and in love. We had met at a party for a mutual friend and hit it off instantly. We had met up every day since then and drank red wine and chatted. We talked for hours each night, sometimes until the following morning. And laughed, hard, sometimes clutching our aching bellies, with tears streaming down our faces. Our future was bright and brimming with possibilities. I felt the invincibility that youth proffers the young.

When he asked me to marry him a year later I had barely let him finish his proposal before responding “yes”. I remember thinking: “I’m free!”  Free to live the life I had always wanted- like the stereotypical television family – two and a half children living in a ranch style house surrounded by a white picket fence and a dog running through the yard.

We married in a beautiful ceremony, just as I had pictured it would be. My mother walked me down the aisle, beaming with pride; she was so happy for me; I silently believed that she was relieved because she had started to worry if I would ever find someone. She had said to me on numerous occasions growing up that I was too cold, too standoff-ish, that no man would want someone like that. She and my husband-to- be had become fast friends once they had met. Sometimes they met up for lunch or coffee without me. I didn’t mind. I liked having alone time.

 There was partying and happy faces and vows and wine- white not red. He had wanted red but I had vehemently refused - no sense in risking stains on the all-white decor, or God forbid, my wedding dress.

Despite our expectations, the idyllic marriage it was not. Real life set in pretty quickly and I found it difficult to adjust to sharing my space, sharing my emotions, my life, everything.  The distance between us started as a small uncomfortable space, but steadily grew over the years into a rift that seemed impossible to cross. He began demanding a connection, emotionally and physically. “But we’re married,” I would say, “how much more connected could we be?”

I felt stubborn and refused to change. He knew who I was and how I was before marriage.

Eight years later he found the connection he sought in the arms of someone else. When he told me one night over dinner, his face full of remorse, I was not surprised. We had been leading separate lives for years. My mother insisted that we go to a marriage counselor. She blamed me. She never said so but I knew that was what she was thinking. My cold, distant predisposition had pushed away a good man.  We went to counseling but I couldn’t let myself feel anything else but guilt for being an absent wife; and resentment towards my husband for cheating on me. I thought that maybe I should have done more; maybe I should have taken marriage more seriously. I pushed those thoughts aside. . It was easier to just  get out.

I was 40 and free..again.

I bent my mind to this new paradigm and enjoyed my single life for a total of 8.2 days. The enjoyment ended the moment  my mother called and said that she had cancer. After the initial shock I didn’t take it that hard. I assumed that there would be surgery to remove the tumor, followed by a few rounds of chemo. She would be fine.

But I was wrong. Very wrong. The cancer was aggressive and spread to her lymph nodes within a matter of months. I shuttled her back and forth from the multitude of doctors, sat with her through a battery of tests, and stayed up with her overnight when she fell seriously ill. Within a year she was gone.

I was free. But this freedom was neither bitter nor sweet.

The funeral was well attended. I received numerous “I’m sorrys” and pats on the back. I didn’t cry. I was wracked with guilt. Maybe I should have done more. Maybe I should have taken it more seriously.

During one of the many prayers during the ceremony, I looked back over the tops of bowed heads and saw him. His eyes, wet with tears, were staring straight at me. I felt warmth of appreciation spread through me. The familiarly of his face gave me a sense of comfort that I had been trying to manifest on my own and so far had failed to do. I looked away and back at the casket, watching the pall bearers slowly walk it out of the church. People were sobbing around me but my eyes were dry. “Maybe you were right mom”, I thought, “maybe I am a cold fish”.

That evening after all of the well- wishers had left, I sat in my living room, legs swung over the arm rest of my favourite recliner, sipping red wine and thinking about my life. Of the people I had lost via death and otherwise.

I was so lost in thought that when the doorbell rang it startled me.

It was him.

He said that he was checking up on me. I was happy for the company but also cautious. We hadn’t spoken to each other in  years. And while he was familiar he had become a stranger to me.

I invited him in and offered him a glass of wine which he accepted.

And then we talked. For hours. Until morning. And laughed. Belly aching laughs. Laughing until our eyes watered.

We said goodbye at 6am.

And hello again the following night. And the next night and the next.

We talked about what had happened in our lives since we had divorced, and soon the conversation turned to our marriage and everything that had made it fail. There were accusations on both sides, and casting of blame. It was explosive one minute and calm and reasoned the next. After hours, silence descended, and he apologized. His voice was barely above a whisper.

Hearing it, a wave of emotion rose up inside of me and I burst into tears. I cried hard and long. I cried for myself, I cried for my mother and I cried for my lost marriage. I felt a cathartic release as the tears fell. And then I finally felt that freedom I had been searching for.  Because I had finally forgiven myself. I was free to look at life again as full of opportunities. I was free to love again. I decided to stop judging myself and just live. “I'm sorry too” I choked out when the crying spasms had stopped.

“I think I’m falling in love with you...again” he said.

I was surprised. Could it be possible? How unlikely could this be?

I thought a bit, reminiscing on the past. I swirled the red wine in my glass and thought about our wedding day and how I had refused to let him have red wine because I was afraid it would spill on something white.  And then I thought about our possible future: bright and new. I looked at his face, weathered by time and full of hope. After a long pause I decided to be honest.

“I…”

THE END