“You work quickly.”
“These kinds of things can go quite fast when uncontested.” He coughs. “I’m assuming this is uncontested?”
I fold my hands in my lap. “I want to talk to Gabriel.”
“He has said that he would prefer not to see or speak to you.”
There’s a fist in my gut. I’m being punched. There’s no other way to explain the pain rocking my core right now. I sit back and cross my arms. “I’m supposed to sign divorce papers without ever having a last conversation with my husband? Is that what’s really being asked of me?”
Sympathy softens the corners of his eyes. “I know this is unexpected, and quite painful, and I?—”
“Did he come to this conclusion alone?” I understand it all, and yet it still doesn’t make sense. It is perfectly Gabriel to think he is doing right by me. It is not Gabriel to choose not to face me.
“He contacted me. I met with him, and his mind was already made up. I didn’t lead him to it, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“This is uncharacteristic of him.” For a second, I marvel at how calm I am, but I’m not really all that calm. Not on the inside. I’m scraping and scrounging, trying like hell to survive this.
Peter sighs, like he too is overwhelmed by what he’s doing. “Maybe you can try to look at things from Gabriel’s point ofview. He’s distressed by his current situation. And ashamed, from what I can tell. He was a firefighter, which means he’s used to occupying the role of hero. What he's doing now…it's coming from the same place. He’s trying to save you.”
“From what?”
“The life you’re being forced to lead, I presume.”
What will happen, if I refuse? Should I do it? Force his hand? What will that look like?
I picture months of pain, of showing up here to visit and him refusing to see me. Would he do that? How far will it go? How bad will it get? Would I end up hating him?
In the end, my own hopelessness wins out.
I say nothing. I take the pen. Did Gabriel use this pen? Has he already signed? I flip to the end, to the paper with the purple tab sticking out the side.
Gabriel Douglas Woodruff
I can’t breathe.
The pen shakes. My signature is a jagged mess. Almost illegible.
I push the papers away and stand. I take a step away, but the lawyer’s voice saying my name draws me back.
He reaches into his briefcase again, this time producing a long, rectangular envelope. “Gabriel asked me to give you this.”
He holds it out. I stare down at the envelope, at his knuckles covered in tiny reddish hairs.
A swell of indignation rises inside me. “If Gabriel can’t face me and say what he has to say, I don’t want to read his words either.”
He keeps the envelope extended, as though I might change my mind. “One day down the road, you might want to read this.”
I lean down, the chain strap of my purse smacking the table and making a loud sound. I take the envelope, and grab the pen I just used to sign my divorce papers. On the front, I writeA Very Heartfelt Refusal To Read. To Peter, I say, “Please return this to Gabriel.”
I want no part of what he has to say in a letter. I’m afraid if I see his boxy handwriting, his r’s that sometimes look like v’s, I will be taken down right here in the visitor room. It is only by sheer stubbornness that I am upright.
Peter motions to the envelope, and my handwriting. “I know you feel blindsided, but I’ve been in family law for a long time. You’ll be ok. Everyone, no matter how hard the experience, eventually ends up at the same point. For some, the path is a lot more painful than it needs to be.”
“Thank you for the advice.” My tone is clipped. I push the editorialized envelope to him and tap it with one finger. “But the sentiment stands.”
I make it to my car before the tears take over. They become a curtain, a waterfall, and I can no longer see. I fold my arms on my steering wheel and sob. I scream and I cry and I pound a fist on my dash.
I learned early on that life isn’t fair.
