The Affair

The Affair

Dyanne Davis

WD Publishing

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Frances Dyanne Davis

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Dedication:

To David Abrahamson: Thank you so much for sharing your journeys with me. I don’t think I would have felt Jeremy and Dimitra’s story so deeply had it not been for you. You didn’t believe me when I told you it might take years to see the book in print, did you? (smile) It’s been years since we communicated but you are often in my thoughts and more so during the editing of this book. Here’s wishing you light to guide you on future journeys.

Acknowledgements:

As always, thanks and glory to God for allowing me without censure to tell the stories of the voices in my head.

To Jeremy and Dimitra, thank you for choosing me to tell your story. I’m honored

Mary O’Gara, a great psychic and teacher. The years of studying with you will no doubt be reflected in this and future work. Thank you for telling me of your own experiences to offer validity to a scene contained in this book that felt so real to me that I knew it had to be true. You confirmed that not only is the unbelievable possible, but happens each moment of every day.

To Debbie Pfeiffer for putting me in touch with people who were willing to talk to me. Even fiction requires research and were it not for you I would not have been able to do such a thorough job.

To Peggy Scolan and Patricia Smith: Thank you both for being so willing to share your impressions with me.

Sidney Rickman, I wonder if you’ve goggled your name. I don’t think I go a month without mentioning you somewhere in the cyber regions. I know you can’t help wondering what’s next and groaning when you see another mss arrive for you with my name on it. I promise you it’s the characters that like talking so much, not me. (smile) As always, Sidney, I couldn’t do this without the world’s best editor.

A shout out of course to the members of my Yahoo family. Hello family!

Starting and ending with the best. Bill and Bill Jr. My prayer is that God continue to bless the three of us with a long and healthy life together

THE AFFAIR

Blood was everywhere. The smell of copper filled my nostrils and I gagged. My hands were covered with the warm sticky substance and my eyes burned with tears from the pain of leaving my beloved. One look at my husband Jeremy and the truth was evident. I was dying. His fear wiped away my own. I had to be brave for him. My dear sweet husband, my soul mate forever and ever.

He was holding me in his arms, his own hands covered in my blood. His tears ran freely down his brown cheeks as he struggled with what he knew but couldn’t accept. And he obviously ached from the knowledge, determined to heal me, unwilling to let me go. It was apparent our gifts would not help. In all of the world there was but one mystic with powers great enough to combat the inevitable, but he was too far away and my link with him was weakened by the loss of blood. I gazed on my husband. His pain was more than I could bear. I listened for sounds of the baby I’d just given birth to and didn’t hear him.

Jeremy, the baby, I said with all the strength that was left in me. I want to see our son. He’s not crying. Bring him to me, please.

For the longest time Jeremy didn’t move. He was holding me so tightly that the bones in his hands were pressing into the small of my back, revealing his desperation. He seemed determined to link with me, have me take from his life force to sustain my own. He would die for me. I knew that as surely as I knew I would never allow it.

Jeremy, bring me our son, I said, pushing him away from me. Get the baby, I cried, desperate to hold our son.

I waited, praying for just another breath. I couldn’t die before I touched my son, made sure he knew he was loved. I passed my hand over his limp little body. Breathe, little one, I urged, breathe, and live.

I stuck my bloody fingers into his small, silent mouth, pulling out the remnant of the hard birth he’d endured. I love you, my son, I cried. I love you. Then I gave him the only thing I had left to give, his birthright. My gifts.

Love him, I urged my husband, pulling him toward me, laying his hand on the son I knew he no longer wanted. Promise me you’ll love him. It wasn’t his fault. I wanted to give you a son. Love him as I do, Jeremy, and take care of him. Do you promise, Jeremy?

I promise, he said with a steady stream of tears cascading down his brown cheeks. My heart broke anew for my husband’s pain. I clutched his hand, kissed it with lips that even I knew were chilled and I placed his hand on the back of our son. I blessed them both, loving them, pledging to love them always, to find them in the next life.

With my lips pressed firmly to my baby’s, I breathed the last of my life’s breath into my son. I could feel my spirit leave my body. Blood filled my lungs and I choked.

I woke gasping for breath, tears streaming down my face.

Are you alright? Did you have the dream again? Larry asked.

Yes, I answered, looking at my husband Larry, feeling dazed that one moment I was with a man I knew I was married to, the other part of my soul, and the next I was in bed with this man I’d been married to for an entire lifetime. I trembled, shaken by the intensity.

Larry, it didn’t feel like a dream. I wanted to explain but he shushed me as he usually did.

It has to be, he asserted. You’re not crazy enough to think it means anything. Go back to sleep, honey. It was just a dream.

Larry, it was real. I pleaded with him to listen. I don’t know how, but it was real. I lost my son, I lost my baby.

Your son is alive and well, Mick. Derrick is fine. Now stop this nonsense and go back to sleep. You need your rest.

His voice was stern, a bit of the anger, the disappointment he felt at my continuing to have the dream coming through in his words to me. In the beginning of our marriage, he’d comforted me. Now he merely wanted me to stop the dreams. As if I could.

I lay back down afraid to sleep. I’d had some version of this dream for most of my life. Even as a child I’d dreamt of my husband with hair the color of night and our baby son, and my heart ached for both of them. I wanted to find them.

My mother had taken me to a shrink, demanding that I stop my nonsense, stop my obsession with the voices I heard calling to me. So I had. At least that was what I told her. But it hadn’t mattered; when my parents’ marriage fell apart my mother blamed the collapse on me, on what she called my craziness.

For a while the dreams came less often and were less vivid. My life was so busy, consumed with everyday problems, a husband, children and a job. I had no time for the lover in my dreams, no time for a child I’d held for only a moment, a child to whom I’d given my dying breath. Still, I grieved, but I grieved alone, afraid to have Larry call me crazy as my mother had.

Eventually I slept again, and the next day my husband and I woke at the same moment. It was the day of our twenty-sixth anniversary. I could tell in his eyes, in his kiss, that the memory of the dream lingered with him and it hurt him.

I felt that he blamed me for having the dream and I knew that for the rest of the day I would walk on eggshells doing everything in my power to make him happy. Denying my own truths would do that. I was very aware of that fact and I resented it. But like everything else in my life, I would shove my own feelings aside. Larry’s wishes would come first. They always did.

We gave each other several kisses and wished each other a happy anniversary. I knew my husband was still upset over this part of me that he wished he could banish. I couldn’t blame him. I had no business dreaming of another man, real or imagined.

Michelle, I’m thinking maybe you should see someone. Those dreams of yours are becoming more frequent. I don’t understand why you’re having them. Maybe you’re not happy with me, with us. There has to be something going on.

I looked at Larry, about to tell him that I wasn’t happy, hadn’t been happy for a long time. His next words stopped me before I could arrange the words I wanted to say.

Of course you’re happy, Larry declared. Who wouldn’t be? We have a good solid marriage, four beautiful daughters, a handsome son and wonderful grandchildren. You’d be crazy not to be happy.

And that was what stopped me. I’d be crazy not to be happy. I’d be crazy to keep thinking of this dark-haired lover, this child that had never existed.

Anything special you want to do for our anniversary? Larry asked, giving me the look that said he did. He wanted to make love and I knew it was in part because he loved me, in part because he wanted to drive the thoughts of another man from my mind and my heart.

So we did. We made love and I clung to my husband as memories rolled over me, memories I couldn’t shake. A supreme knowing filled me. This time I could not push it away. Something was going to happen to tear apart our home. I could feel it with every atom of my being and I didn’t know if I could stop it. I didn’t even know if I wanted to stop it.

We exchanged no gifts, no cards for our anniversary. We simply made love, made that our declaration. Larry thought we had everything that we needed; he thought we should save our money for the kids, help them out, not waste it on useless gifts when we already had everything that we wanted.

The only problem was that I didn’t have everything that I wanted. The home and cars meant nothing. I wanted to feel validated. I wanted to stop feeling dead inside as if I’d lost something very special to me and would never find it. I wanted to talk about this with my husband without fear that he would want to commit me. I wanted to find one person who understood what I was saying, who didn’t think I was crazy.

Larry had an entirely different view of our marriage. He was happy. We were friends, we enjoyed each other’s company and we had sex regularly. The only fly in the ointment was my dreams, and those he dealt with by reprimanding me, advising me to get more rest, to stop watching romantic movies that were putting crazy ideas in my head.

I suppose that was our main difference. He felt my dreams were something I needed help for, and I felt they were more. There were many times I felt that if Larry would simply talk with me about the dreams I could put them into proper focus. But he either couldn’t or wouldn’t. And what I felt in the end was cheated.

There are times I can’t imagine my life without my husband Larry at my side. Then there are other times that I don’t know how I can continue another day, another minute of the sameness.

Thoughts of Jeremy and our son haunted me constantly. I tried hard to keep it from Larry. I had to. I wanted to keep it from myself. I wanted it to end. Sometimes I wanted my very life to end.

The day after our anniversary, I had an eerie, weighted down feeling. At the time it didn’t seem exactly like depression, but now I’m not so sure. I had to fight to remain in my own body. I continually felt a tugging of my spirit to leave. I’m not sure anyone can understand this unless they’ve lived through it, but that’s the only way I can describe it.

I truly believe that if I had not fought against the sensations that day, I could have closed my eyes and died.

I knew this. I was fully aware of my feelings. I knew it the same way I knew many things in my life. And like the other things that I knew, this too I shoved away from me.

I decided to make a short run to the local grocer for a few things I didn’t really need. I felt a sense of urgency, that if I didn’t connect with other living, breathing humans, my husband would come home to a cold wife, stiff with rigor mortis. So, I grabbed my bag and left.

The brightly lit store did little to lift my spirits. I was randomly picking out items, trying to prolong my time there, not wanting to go home alone to an empty house. I thought of Viola, the old woman I’d hit with my car six months before when I was leaving the grocery store. I’d seen her for only a nanosecond before she bounced off my car. Instantaneous guilt filled me. Why hadn’t I seen her? I gripped the handle of my cart, trying desperately to keep the memories at bay, knowing it was to no avail.

I shivered, the sensation going all the way to my spine. I again saw the blood, heard the fragile bones as they broke. I stopped in the middle of an aisle and wiped away the tears that always accompanied the memory.

"Don’t move, don’t try to talk. I whispered, going down on my knees beside the limp body, grasping the elderly woman’s hand. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you in time. I’ll get help," I said, reaching in the pocket of my jacket for my phone.

"What’s your name?" I asked after finishing the call, wanting to keep the woman as calm as possible.

"Viola."

"Viola, you’re going to be fine. Help will be here soon. They’ll get you to the hospital."

"I don’t have money for a hospital, Viola answered grasping my hand. I don’t have insurance."

"Ill take care of everything, I’ll make sure your bills are paid. I’ll come visit you, make sure you have what you need. I promise," I said, clutching the woman’s hand in mine meaning every word that I spoke.

It had seemed an eternity before the paramedics wrapped Viola up and carried her away on a stretcher. I’d stayed behind to talk to the police. And then I called Larry, frantic for him to meet me at the hospital. Larry told me to stay where I was, that I was too distraught to drive and at that point I was. So I waited for him to come.

When he did, I began babbling almost incoherently, so glad to have him at my side. Larry, they took her to St. Mary’s.

I managed to get those words out before collapsing against him. Overwhelming guilt filled me. Why hadn’t I seen her, why hadn’t I at least sensed her? I had always been good at sensing danger. There were too many questions I didn’t have the answers to. So I closed my eyes and prayed for the woman to be all right.

I didn’t open my eyes again until the car stopped and Larry turned off the ignition. Again I prayed for the strength to go into the hospital and see the old woman. When I opened my eyes, I blinked several times in disbelief, then looked at Larry. He’d taken me home.

Larry, why did you bring me home? I asked, dumbfounded as to his reasons.

Come in the house, Mick. We have to talk. He answered me in a tight voice, alerting me that something was wrong.

As an attorney, Larry was concerned with our legal liabilities, I wasn’t. We fought about my wanting to keep my promise and go to the hospital. At one point, he physically held me down. That surprised the hell out of me. In all our years of marriage, Larry had never attempted to use brute force against me. For weeks, we fought about my going to see Viola, until at last out of sheer exhaustion I gave up, and then gave in.

I knew Viola was part of the reason that I was feeling disconnected. I had hoped that I could escape thoughts of her by running away from my home. No such luck.

I wished I’d had appointments, doctors to call on, but my calendar was clear. I had the day off. There wasn’t even a reason for me to go into the office. But regardless of that I found myself wishing that I had gone to work just to be around people. I didn’t need to be alone. I thought about calling Larry and asking him to come home, but right then, his was the last face I wanted to see. No, I’d have to wait out the feeling of dread alone.

I hated this position I’d willingly placed myself in when I married the handsome go-getter who’d promised to protect me always. At nineteen, that had been exactly what I wanted to hear, what I’d always dreamed. Larry was my black knight.

Somewhere along the way my dreams changed. I no longer wanted to be protected or to have my decisions made for me, but I’d failed to notify my husband of the change. So, I unjustly blamed him for a situation I could have taken control of at any time. The problem was that I hadn’t learned that lesson soon enough.

It was only when I hit the dreaded forty mark that I really became aware of my growing resentment toward my life, my family, my husband and most of all, toward myself.

I’d turned into my mother. I didn’t want to rock the boat, to fight, to have it escalate into divorce as my parents’ marriage had. No, I wanted my marriage to Larry to be forever. I didn’t want to be crazy and alone so I kept my feelings bottled inside.

If it had not been for that little old woman darting out into the path of my car, maybe I could have lived out the remainder of my life this way. But it had happened. I was being haunted by a woman still alive.

The smell of the blood that oozed from her body assaulted my senses on a daily basis. Her pitiful cries, the look of pain and shock in her pale blue eyes never left me. And with the memory, the dreams returned in full force.

Viola’s clothes spoke of poverty, and her words had confirmed it. Her main worry, despite my continued reassurance, was how she could afford a hospital visit. My promise that I would be there for her had brought a weak smile to her pale lips.

It wasn’t your fault, she’d said, squeezing my hands, her wrinkled flesh covering my own. It was only then that I noticed the trembling in my hands.

It was Viola’s touch that I felt now as I stood in the store trying to control the bizarre feelings taking over my body. I felt as if I’d betrayed the old woman by never following through on my promise. I’d left her thinking I would be there for her. I’d failed her and I’d failed myself.

I needed something to chase away the thought of Viola and her raggedy coat and the sight of cans of tomato sauce flying up in the air and landing on my car, eggs breaking and pooling into a gooey mess.

I couldn’t shake the memory. I looked down at my own cart filled with only the best the store had to offer, things I gave no thought to purchasing.

It hit me how hard it must have been for Viola to scrape money together for the meager groceries in her bag.

"My food." I thought I’d heard her say those words but I was never sure.

Michelle, think of something else, I scolded myself. Viola is in the past. Keep her there. So, I thought of my children, all grown and moved away and I thought briefly of my grandchildren. I knew this wasn’t an empty nest feeling, because the kids got on my nerves and I was glad when they finally left. As for the grandkids, my rule was two hours, then back home they went. Nor did I encourage spending holidays with us.

Larry had laughed at me when I shared my feelings with him. He thought I was teasing. Why, I don’t know. I told him in the most serious fashion. But he couldn’t accept my feelings, I suppose because he loved them so much and enjoyed their company. Several times a year he always planned trips for us to see the kids but at the last instant I usually told him I had an emergency at work and couldn’t go but that I’d make it up to him when he returned.

In my job as a medical sales representative that excuse was as flimsy as the nightgown I’d always wear for Larry on his return.

The kids enjoyed having their father to themselves and I enjoyed not having to visit them. Funny thing, as much as I wished for time alone, I couldn’t wait for Larry to come home. Maybe I was a bit crazy.

Chapter Two

I met Chance when I was shopping for my husband’s dinner. Can you imagine the irony in that? In his name? Anyway, when I could malinger no longer, I at last paid for my groceries and made my way toward the exit.

The sky had been a beautiful cerulean blue when I went in, but now it was an angry gray. Fat drops of water began to plop down as I left the store and by the time I was halfway to my car, the rain was pouring down in buckets. The paper bag I’d opted for in the store quickly became saturated and collapsed, spilling my groceries under cars and into the greasy puddles.

I stood for a moment, soaked to the bone, watching my dinner scatter like so many pearls from a broken strand. I started to cry. It wasn’t so much the food or the wasted money, but in that moment those scattering groceries represented my life and my emotions.

I saw tomato sauce flying in the air, eggs breaking, though I had bought neither. I could no more escape my feelings of guilt for not going to see Viola than I could escape my own flesh.

So I did the only thing I could. I cried harder than I ever had in my life, in the rain, in the parking lot, my arms outstretched to the heavens. At first I didn’t notice the man retrieving my items and placing them in a double plastic bag.

When he handed the plastic bag filled with my groceries back to me, I saw sympathy in his face and his eyes and cried harder. For a moment he looked confused. Then he put his arms around me and held me, pressing my head into his chest.

I held on to him as if my very life depended on it. Despite the cold rain, I felt an electrical energy emanating from his body and twining around me. I felt as if I had come home at last. Strange, but it was how I felt.

For long minutes the rain poured down over us. I truly wanted to stop crying, but the fact that I was crying in the rain, in the parking lot, with a strange man comforting me, made me cry more.

At last I gained control and lifted my head from his chest and looked at him. There was an expression of awe on his face, of wonderment. Do I know you? I attempted to smile, but the intensity of his look prevented it.

I’m sorry about this. I waved my hand around attempting to convey to him that I was not usually a woman given to hysterics.

Are you better now? he asked.

I think so, but I don’t want to be alone.

I forced myself to look, really look, at the man standing in front of me. He was tall, almost as tall as Larry. That would make him close to six feet.

His hair was jet black, like a raven’s, and had the tiniest sprinkling of gray around the temples. The rain had plastered his shirt flat against his chest and abdomen, revealing that he was lean and muscular.

I examined his face. Strong chin, a mouth that was firm and inviting, tiny laugh lines etched into the contours.

But it was his eyes that gave me pause. I’d been attracted to Larry because of the beauty of his golden brown eyes. This man standing before me possessed without a doubt the most captivating blue eyes God had ever bestowed on a human. I’d never seen that particular color on any living being. I gazed into their depths and became lost. I pulled back to get a better look at the total man. His skin was the color of heated gold from his obvious tan. In spite of the cold rain his touch was hot and inviting. But none of those things were the reason behind my actions. There was something familiar about him and it frightened me.

I closed my eyes against the rush of unexpected emotions. I knew I needed to get a grip, yet my head was spinning and for no known reason, I felt a surge of pure joy overtake me. I was relieved when he spoke.

You look as if you could use some company. Would you like to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee…maybe talk…a little?

You’re right, I could use some company. I was no longer sobbing, just crying quietly now. I took a good look at this man who’d taken the time to comfort me.

For the first time I noticed something behind the intense look in his eyes. He was in pain. I wanted to do something to help, anything to take away this stranger’s own pain and sorrow.

I wanted only to comfort this man. He felt familiar to me, this stranger who’d shown me such compassion. This time there would be no call to ask my husband what I should do. I would do what I wanted.

I felt him pulling away from me and I backed away also. Maybe I’d only imagined the intense heat searing me. Despite the chill of the rain I could feel heat rush to my cheeks and was glad of my olive complexion. My blush would only be internal for feeling stupid in mistaking a stranger’s kindness. We gazed into each other’s eyes for maybe five seconds.

Do you believe in fate?

He asked me this only a moment before I found myself in his arms again, his lips covering my own, tasting the rain on his tongue and the sweet mint of his breath.

His mouth filled me with a heat that I knew but had abandoned long ago. It was as if I had found my life again. I no longer wanted to die.

I don’t remember putting my groceries in my car, but I must have, because later I took them out. What I do remember is the man silently holding out his hand to me. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me. And I wanted him.

I do remember him opening the door of his Jeep Cherokee to let me in. That was the first moment I became conscious that I was soaked. I worried about ruining his seats. He smiled at me and kissed my hand.

I truly wish I could say that I was so overcome with passion that I was unaware of what I was doing, but that wasn’t the case. I thought about the book and later the movie, The Bridges of Madison County, and how I had argued that the woman had no right to cheat on her husband, that he’d done nothing wrong, that she just wanted to have an affair.

Well, I was now that woman. My husband by the usual standards is the ideal mate. He loves me, of that I’m sure. He provides a good living for us and he’s the perfect father. In fact, I think the only thing about our life that bothers Larry is my flights of fancy, as he calls them. He’s teasingly told me on several occasions that he would never commit me, that he’d take care of me himself. I know he means it as a joke but the possibility of it happening is always with me. Now I no longer cared. It didn’t matter.

While I was sitting in a Jeep with a man whose name I didn’t know, I knew it didn’t make any difference. I was going through with it.

The thought of asking him to get condoms crossed my mind. I briefly thought of AIDS, then how irresponsible I was being. I could be driving away with a serial killer. I just wanted for once to do something that had not been pre-approved by my husband. Besides, I knew instinctively that this man wouldn’t hurt me. There was some connection to him that I felt in my being.

If one of my daughters had done something so incredibly dumb I would have read her the riot act, and I did attempt to do so for myself. The hotel was only a couple of blocks away, right in my own small town where anyone could walk in and see me, but I truly didn’t care.

I didn’t care at that point that my thick, cinnamon- colored dyed hair was soaked and tangled and falling in heavy curls down