Page 114 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
I even saw him at JFK airport when I was running to catch a flight. But then the person would turn their head and I would see that it was just someone with messy dark hair and a similar build who wasn’t Gabriel, and my heart would plummet.
Until finally, I stopped looking for his face in every crowd.
But now, curiosity got the best of me. “So tell me about the music,” I said between bites of rice and beans. “Have you found your way back to it?”
He nodded. “I started learning how to play guitar two years ago.”
“And how’s that going? Are you an axe slinger yet? Shredding with the best of them?” I tried to keep my tone light and breezy like we were just old friends catching up and not two lovers whose happily ever after was cut tragically short.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “But I’ve built up some good calluses and I practice every day. The guitar is my favorite toy. I love to play around with it and see what it can do.”
“Does it ever make you cry?”
“Weep. When I first started learning, I listened to these old Robert Johnson recordings over and over and tried to play them. I was singing the Delta blues, baby. And, oh man, when I figured out what you can do with tunings, I was all over that.”
I laughed. It was funny but at the same time it wasn’t. To think that he’d had to start from scratch and learn all over again, when before he was such a skilled, innovative guitarist, was heartbreaking.
“What made you decide to start playing again?”
“Sheer boredom. Or curiosity, maybe,” he said. “I had all these guitars sitting in the living room and every day I’d walk right past them. I felt no attachment whatsoever. But one day,I picked up a guitar and it felt good in my hands, so I started experimenting. And every day after that, I kept coming back to it. Now music has become as essential as breathing. So you were right about that.”
Music saved him just like I knew it would.
Before I went to Bali, I’d been left with the unenviable task of divvying up all our things. I packed up his clothes and books and CDs, his stereo and guitars, and moved them to the cabin in the Hudson Valley should he ever come looking for them.
That was the day I finally started letting him go. Three hundred days after he left, when I was forced to relegate our lives into two separate compartments.
His and Hers. Before and After.
“Do you sing too?” I asked.
“I sing. Or, at least, I try to sing. Not sure how good it is.” He set down his fork and leaned back in his seat. “It’s all experimental. Like a child at play, you know? Kids aren’t worried if they’re doing it right. They’re just having fun. Going wherever their imagination takes them. They’re not jaded or cynical or self-conscious. They’re not worried about what will come tomorrow or next year or five years from now. They’re just right there in that moment building castles in the sand, and there’s so much freedom and so much joy in that.”
It was true. As we get older, we lose that childlike wonder.
It sounded as if Gabriel had fallen in love with life again.
But why couldn’t he have done that with me by his side?
“Come to Montauk,” he said. “We’ll have the ocean on our doorstep and a wild garden and the salt breeze in our hair. I have an art studio where you can work while I write music. I’ll serve you peaches and fresh seafood and wine and serenade you while you paint canvases. We’ll spend quality time together and get to know each other all over again.”
Typical Gabriel. He wanted everything all at once. What really struck me was the line about getting to know each other all over again.
Even so, a big part of me was tempted to say yes.Yes, yes, yes. Let’s just forget all this divorce business and fall in love all over again. You can feed me sun-ripened peaches and kiss the juice off my lips. Read poetry and sing me love songs and make me forget that you ever said goodbye.
But when you’re the one left holding all the baggage, it wasn’t so easy to forget or forgive.
My phone rang, jolting me back to the present. I fished it out of my bag and stared at the screen, debating for so long that the call went to voice mail. A few seconds later, my phone started ringing again. I silenced the call and stashed the phone in my clutch bag, snapping it shut.
I’d call him back tomorrow.
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed to slits. “One of yoursomeones, Cleo?”
The accusation in his tone fuelled my anger. He had no right to question me, let alone act like the injured party. I lifted my chin. “What’s it to you, Gabriel?”
“You’re still my wife. Did you tell those assholes that you’re already married?”
I laughed without a trace of humor. “Wow. You’ve suddenly remembered that I’m your wife after three years of radio silence. Do you think that gives you the right to act like a jealous lover? We’re married on paper only. I’m not going to hold you to vows you don’t even remember making.”
