Out With The Old, In With The New. Nancy Thompson Robards

my husband—has never given me reason to doubt him, why shouldn’t I trust him implicitly? It can’t be any other way. A relationship without trust is a derailed train.

      No. Worse.

      It’s a yawning sinkhole that opens its greedy jaws and devours everything that once seemed stable. Without trust, you might as well end it before the relationship gets ugly.

      Because it will. Without trust, sooner or later you’ll end up eating each other alive.

      That’s why when Corbin pronounced the letter someone’s idea of a sick joke, I chose to believe him.

      I had to.

      If you could have seen him, his eyes hooded and heavy with sleep. He propped himself up on his elbow and blinked at the paper I thrust in his face. “What’s this?”

      The overhead light cast shadows on his face, hollowing his cheeks, making his cheekbones appear even sharper. So handsome. What woman wouldn’t want him?

      “I don’t know, Corbin. I was hoping you could explain it to me.”

      The memory seems ancient, as though it happened years ago, but it still shakes me to the core. I move up three car lengths, edging closer, but not too close, to the Volvo station wagon in front of me, then pull the lapels of my navy-blue peacoat closed at my neck and wait in stone-cold silence for the pickup line to inch its way around to Caitlin. The radio’s off because every time I turned it on they were playing songs like “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,” and “How am I Supposed to Live Without You.” When was the last time I heard those ditties?

      I glance in the rearview mirror. The line of cars stretches back to infinity.

      I’m gridlocked.

      Even if I wanted to get out of this line, I couldn’t. If I were in a better mood I might make a wry comparison about how gridlock reminds me of marriage.

      I can’t leave him. I mean, my God, we’ve been married for twenty years.

      Half my life.

      Whoa. I will not waste my energy by contemplating divorce. Corbin’s not having an affair. Period.

      Last night he caved in over the note, as if someone punched him in the stomach. He held his head in his hands and said, “What the hell…? This is bullshit. Kate? You don’t think—?”

      “I don’t know what to think, Corbin.”

      I stood there with my hands on my hips acting like such a bitch—for about thirty seconds. Then all I wanted to do was beg him, Tell me it isn’t true, Corbin. Make me believe this isn’t true.

      But I couldn’t say it because I knew I should either believe in him…or leave him. Asking him to tell me it isn’t true is like admitting I don’t trust him.

      Feeling the sinkhole rumble underneath me, I sit in the midst of pickup line gridlock, stuck in my own personal gridlock because I can’t write off the letter as a hoax. I won’t let myself slide down into the what-ifs of extramarital affair investigation.

      You know—A plus B plus C equals Corbin’s opportunity to cheat. Oh, and remember that time that he should have been home at six, but didn’t get in until eleven-thirty—

      La! La! La! La! La! La! La! I can’t hear me! Don’t want to hear me because my husband is not having an affair.

      That’s better. I lean my head against the cool window. Try on the words for size: I believe him.

      I want to believe in the way he reached out last night, took my arm and pulled me down next to him on the bed.

      “Kate, look at me.”

      He tried to lace his fingers through mine, but I jerked away and traced the burnished gold-on-gold woven into the raw silk of our duvet cover. Until he pounded the bed. “Goddamn it, Kate. Come on. This is fucking bullshit.”

      I pounded the bed, too. “Don’t yell at me, Corbin! This is not my fault.”

      Tell me it isn’t true. Make me believe this isn’t true.

      He held up a hand. Squeezed his eyes shut. Drew in a deep breath through flaring nostrils. “I’m sorry, let’s just start over. From the beginning. Where’s the envelope?”

      The plain white rectangle lay kitty-corner, half on the hardwood floor, half on the Persian rug next to the bed. The white stood out like a surrender flag against a blood-orange sunset.

      Corbin picked up the envelope. Flipped it from one side to the other. Snorted. “Nothing.”

      A quick flick of his wrist, sent the envelope skimming across the polished wood until it dead-ended into the baseboard.

      Then we sat side-by-side in silence. Him—crumpling the letter as if the words would disappear into the black hole of his fist. Me—needing him to say, “I love you. I haven’t been unfaithful.”

      He never said it. When I finally summoned the strength to ask, big, fat, hot tears—bottled up all day—slipped from my eyes, slid down my face and washed away the words.

      He held me until I stopped crying, until I murmured, “Who would do this to us?”

      “I don’t know, Kate, but I’ll sure as hell get to the bottom of it.”

      The Ford Excursion behind me beep-beep-beeps, and I realize the line has moved ahead at least five car lengths. I’m still sitting in the same spot. I give a little wave and pull up. I have to get a hold of myself.

      To keep my mind from falling backward into the sinkhole of doubt and fear, I focus on my breathing, the way they teach us in yoga class.

      Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Believe him. Or leave him. Believe him. Or leave him.

      No! Stay present.

      I drum my nails on the steering wheel. Outside my window the sun is shining through barren trees; the Volvo is still in front of me, the Ford Excursion still behind. Bundled-up children cling to their parents’ hands as they dash between cars toward the sidewalk ready for a brisk walk home; the faint warble of the three-fifteen school bell sounds, dismissing the bus riders—car riders leave at first bell.

      The bell sounds remarkably similar to “Ode to Joy.” Oh. No, wait—that’s my cell phone. Caitlin probably changed the ring again. It’s one of her favorite pranks.

      I grab my purse from the passenger seat. Fumble for the phone. Press Talk just before it switches to voice mail.

      “Hello?”

      “Are your bags packed?”

      It’s Alex.

      “Noooooo—”

      “Well get ready, I’ve booked us a room at The Breakers for the weekend of February seventh.”

      “That’s only two weeks from now.”

      “Right. One of the weekends we all agreed on.”

      Breath in. Breath out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

      “Kate? Are you there?”

      “Yes. I—I just thought you’d choose one of the other options we agreed on.”

      “The Breakers is offering a fabulous spa package that weekend—you know, so close to Valentine’s Day. We’d be crazy not to take advantage of it.”

      A knot the size of Texas moves into my stomach.

      “You’re still going, right?” she asks.

      If I believe in my husband—if I trust him—I should have no reservations whatsoever. Just as I never had any doubt about going away with Rainey and Alex the nine previous years we’ve carried on this tradition.

      “Of course I’m going. I have to let Corbin know.” I hear myself saying the words, but they sound foreign. My heart’s instinct is to