Gone
Neither of us slept. The sky brightened slightly, capturing the feel of an all-nighter, with a lingering sense of accomplishment and waste.
“You should go, at some point. I don’t want Josh seeing you here in the morning.”
“I agree,” I said. I began to get dressed and gather my belongings. I avoided eye contact.
“Will,” Sondra said. “I refuse to be awkward about this. We’re going to talk this through now. You’re not leaving until we do.”
“I can’t do this again, I said.”
“Neither can I. But the three of us will continue to do things together. That does not change. There is no way that Josh gets penalized. I’ll tell you something else.” She walked over to me and gently stabbed me with her finger. “I do not care about any discomfort or regret or guilt that any of us feel. The three of us go on. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“And anyway, I feel no regret or guilt. If it helps, this is on me. I needed this, and I used you.”
“I don’t feel used,” I said. “I’m thinking about Erica.”
Sondra sat down on the edge of her bed. “If I had the ability to care for anything other than my child, I would think about her too.”
I continued to get dressed. “I don’t know if I’m going to tell her, not in her current state at least.” I looked at Sondra. “That’s convenient, right? I cheated, but I shouldn’t tell her. It’s for her own good.”
“You didn’t cheat,” she said, and she sounded secure in her conviction. “I know that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s true somehow.”
As I walked down the steps of Sondra’s brownstone and into the cold grip of a late October morning, I was keenly aware that I was empty, but I fully expected all of the conventional emotions and reactions to kick in. Guilt. Regret. Shame. And I believe that in the absence of intervening events, I just might have experienced mortification from cheating on the only woman I had ever loved, while she was convalescing at my parents’ house, at taking advantage of her patient, who some might view as being particularly vulnerable under the circumstances.
But as I look back at this time, I realize that I was dropping through a vortex, spinning faster as I reached the bottom of the funnel. Recrimination was a luxury I would soon not be able to afford.
My memory is perhaps hazy from the passage of time, but I recall that as I entered my apartment hours after my night with Sondra, I resolved that I would quickly disclose the events to Erica. The affair clarified my feelings toward Erica, an appalling result to the evening, I realized. I wanted to work through everything, the affair, the kundalini rising, the differences in our beliefs, and construct an enduring relationship, not one that depended on resolving our differences, but one that could withstand them.
And given my impatience, I would have called Erica promptly, maybe spilling out my confession over the phone. But at that moment of gathering conviction, I heard the phone ring and shuddered that she had beat me to the punch. I steeled myself and answered the call.
“We haven’t spoken in a while, Will. I hope all is well with you.”
I was tired, and Lindquist’s voice was pleasant but unwelcome, a voice from my past. “I won’t take up too much of your time, but I thought you might appreciate a report from the battleground. First thing I need to say is that I’m resigning my role as your agent.”
“I’m migrating away from the . . . practice anyway, not that I ever really participated, so I accept your resignation.”
“Might not be a bad career choice,” Lindquist said. “I need to report that, from a statistical standpoint, our evening in the country was not successful.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m not glad that the others are suffering, but this news makes my career choice that much easier.”
“We all had a good time, Will, a great time, actually, and that is no small consideration.”
“I had a good time too,” I replied, “at least to the extent that I can recall.”
“Well, that’s important too,” Lindquist said. “Truth be told, however, Sarah’s still suffering from pain.”
“Mark, I have to believe that neither she nor the others came to your house with great expectations.”
“And Evelyn still sniffles, and Maureen is still despondent.”
I felt a realignment, a reversion to the norm. Centrifugal forces exerted their comforting pull. I had fashioned out of my excellent adventure a more daring approach to life, and it was time now to allow the playing field to level. “Mark, you know I never fully bought into this . . . business, and maybe we should interpret our peculiar time together as a wake-up call . . .”
“Kravitz is doing better.”
“I’m thankful for that,” I replied.
“‘Better’ might be an inexact term.”
“Any improvement would be wonderful.”
“‘Improvement’ might be inexact as well.”
“Mark, I thank you for providing me with some unforgettable experiences . . .”
“I’m being coy, Will, trying to create some dramatic tension, so you’ll need to forgive me.”
“For what?”
“For stringing this along, rather than just coming right out and telling you. The fact of the matter is, Kravitz is a lot better.”
“You mentioned that.”
“So much so that his doctors are in a state of confusion.”
“Are you still stringing this out?”
“I am,” Lindquist said. “Kravitz is in remission. In fact, remission might not capture it. The cancer is, if I understand this, gone.”
“Gone . . . what does that mean?”
“Gone, as in no longer there.”
“Gone . . .”
“The medical term might be spontaneous remission or regression, and apparently it’s not unprecedented, but in this case, it was unexpected. Anyway, I started this conversation off by saying that I’m done being your agent, and I mean that. I’m grateful for what you’ve done, but you’re on your own. I’m not a promoter. You’ll take things where you will. But I suspect you’ll be hearing from Kravitz, directly or indirectly. Consider this a heads-up.”