It's a summer Saturday evening, about 7:00 p.m. I'm southbound
on Interstate 5 in Orange County, California, approaching the interchange with
the southbound 405.
In the early stages of an emotionally crippling divorce, I have
just gotten off the telephone with the husband from whom I am separated. He is
still in our house; I've taken an apartment in a nearby town.
When I'd packed up my car and left the evening of Father's Day
1987, he'd followed me outside, given me a romantic card, cried and pleaded
with me to stay. I was resolved, unmoved by his theatrics, put my 280ZX in
reverse, and headed south to San Clemente where I'd rented a room in a friend's
house.
After that, my husband and I remained in daily contact. We
"dated" on the weekends. We had the best sex we'd ever had; even so,
he would not spend the night in San Clemente, and he did not invite me to come
back to our home in Brea. He sent letters and postcards to my new address, and
left long messages on the answering machine, such that my male roommate
insisted "this guy's still in love with you. I don't understand why you
guys are getting divorced." The truth was, it was the first time in my
10-year marriage that I felt "in control." I had always grabbled for
my husband's affection; he was now grabbling for mine and I was eating it up.
We'd been on the phone for a couple of hours when my husband
announced, "I need to get out and rake up some leaves." I was happy
to let him go. I'd been invited to a friend's child's birthday party, with the
promise that her single brother would be there and she'd like me to meet him. I
wasn't interested in dating, but I didn't mind getting some attention from a
stranger.
I let me husband go, jumped in the shower and prepared for the
evening festivities. It would be a diversion from the depression and the
anxiety I felt.
As I drove south on Interstate 5 my thoughts were on my
husband. He never did yard work while we were married. Perhaps there was a
"new Craig" emerging, one that would be the kind of husband I hoped
he could be, instead of the narcissistic, critical, lazy, daily-drug-user that
had made me miserable for a decade. I did not want a divorce, but I could no
longer stay married to this man and his drug addiction. I felt a glimmer of
hope and embraced it enthusiastically.
Deep in thought, I almost didn't notice the red and white Ford
Explorer that was passing me on my driver's side. "For some reason" I
looked over, and as I looked over, so did the driver of the Ford Explorer -- it
was my husband, all cleaned up and dressed to kill. He gave me a shit-eating
grin and waved. I was stunned.
There weren't cell phones in 1987. We were driving at speeds
close to 75 miles per hour. There was no way to have a talk with him. He paced
me for a while, then passed me. I felt hot tears fill my eyes and stream down
my cheeks. He had lied to me! He had lied to me! Where was he going all dressed
up!? He had lied to me!
Suddenly his Ford Explorer slowed down, and before I could
react and follow him, he exited at a freeway off ramp and quickly disappeared
from my rear view mirror.
His behavior was so erratic, I quickly deduced there was
another woman at the core of his behavior. When I arrived at my friend's party,
I was so distraught I couldn't enjoy the evening. Her brother, knowing that he
was to meet one of his sister's newly-single friends, never showed up.
I learned shortly thereafter that my husband had
a girlfriend -- in fact, had had her in his life for several months before I
left him. The chances that my husband and I would pass each other on the
interstate were a gazillion to one; even so, the Fates had made it happen. I
lost my "power," was humiliated, and was made a mockery of, all while
driving in my car on a very small stretch of southbound Interstate 5 in Orange County,
California.
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