A Stubborn, Persistent Illusion ...Part 16 ...What's Behind Door Three?
—Ayn Rand
Clare
I had just gotten back from the pub and was sitting alone in my apartment bemoaning my life and the death of my wife and regretting Clare left and wishing I had never re-started the affair.
I call it an affair for want of a better name—Clare was the reason I was mentally unfaithful to Elaine and was hating myself again for not being straight and telling her the truth—the truth I still find hard to face.
How do I explain to Clare that Elaine phoned the day she died and I didn’t answer because I was with her instead of being at the airport with my wife?
I thought she’d be gone overnight—not forever—and when her plane crashed and burned so did my world… and the only thing that survived was my guilt.
So, I was sitting at my kitchen table contemplating a bottle of wine hoping to find oblivion or a temporary reprieve from pain.
To make matters worse, Elaine somehow miraculously resurrected and doesn’t recognize me. Somehow, that seems appropriate—I certainly wasn’t there for her.
Still, I’ve carried out this ruse asking her to locate a friend who was a previous tenant in her apartment, all the while trying to assess if she’s real or not—definitely, ironic.
While I’m wrestling with my guilt my cell’s vibrating on silent. I watch the screen light up with Elaine’s name on the caller ID and once again, I’m afraid to answer.
But I made this mistake before and I’m not going to reprise it, so I pick up on the third pulse and hope to God I can find a way to make amends for my past errors.
“Paul? It’s Elaine.”
I freeze and feel my scalp tingle and a wave of what feels like static electricity sweep up the nape of my neck.
“Hey, Elaine,” I rasp, trying to sound casual.
“I just wanted to update you. I phoned Walter, my landlord, and the phone went immediately to message but he left a recording saying he’d be back tomorrow so I’ll probably see him in the afternoon when he drops by to cut the grass and pick up the rent check.”
It’s all so eerily familiar. I haven’t written a check in years and probably wouldn’t know how to fill one out. She’s stuck in the past with old technology, phoning me from our old landline and getting through on my cell.
“That’s really great, Elaine. Actually, I was planning to drop by so if you can give me an idea of when you think Walter will be there, I’ll try to arrive at that time.”
“He usually comes by about three. Just ring the bell when you arrive—no need to wait outside. I’ll make coffee, if that’s all right.”
Once again, I’m struck by Elaine’s hospitality and friendliness toward strangers—which ironically, I seem to be.
“Don’t go to any trouble because of me,” I protest.
“No trouble—I like visitors. I’ll see you at three.”
I end the call picturing Elaine on the other end, hanging up the receiver of our old, green, vintage push-button phone.
I really didn’t know until I spoke to her if I’d ever see or hear from her again—and now I’ve made a date to visit her the next day.
Life is strange—and simply articulating the word reminds me of a quote from Heisenberg: “Not only is the Universe stranger than we think, it is stranger than we can think.”
And that about sums up the weirdness of this past week—not to mention my reunion with Clare or the reparation in this hellish purgatory of the past ten years.