I scroll down and stare at an old picture of us, taken on our Valentine’s trip to St. Augustine two years ago. We are holding two cups of water in the air, from the fountain of youth.
How were we so happy back then?
I know it’s silly, but I can’t help thinking that maybe there’s more to the way he acts than a trauma. I fear he’s seeing someone else. The thought knocks the air out of me. I feel like I’m losing him; he’s sliding away from between my hands, and I don’t know how to hold onto him.
I stare at the Facebook page, then do the last thing I ever thought I would. I log off my own Facebook profile, then log onto his. I know all his passwords. He thinks I don’t, but I do. He’s not that hard to figure out. He only shifts between three passwords: my birthday, Damian’s birthday, and Isabella’s birthday. It’s all he has ever used. I start with mine, then move onto the children’s. It works with Damian’s birthday. I am logged in and now have access to his profile.
It’s the first thing I see. It pops up in a separate window, and my heart rate quickens immediately. I see now that he has been on Facebook, probably using his phone. And he has been messaging someone. A girl. Not just some girl.
Sandra.
I barely breathe as I scroll up and begin to read the messages. Apparently, they had been talking for a few days before she died. He’s the one who wrote to her first.
Ryan: We need to talk.
Sandra: I don’t want to talk to you, Ryan.
Ryan: We have to.
Sandra: No, we don’t. We’re home now. It’s time we forget what happened. Things are different now that we’re back.
Ryan: I need to see you. I’ll be over tomorrow at noon.
Sandra: All right. Just for coffee. Nothing else.
I stare at the words on the screen, then read them again and again. There’s a couple of days between some of them, but the last one was written the day before she was found dead. This realization makes my throat feel tight. I struggle to breathe. I suddenly remember something from the day I walked into her house, guided by Damian. There was something on the breakfast counter. Two cups had been left out. The kitchen was completely clean otherwise, Sandra never left anything out. Her kitchen was always annoyingly clean. Those two cups, and this message…does that mean…was Ryan visiting right before she killed herself? The thought makes me dizzy. The wording of the messages makes my stomach churn.
Just for coffee? What did that mean? Did she fear he expected something else? Did they have an affair? Had they slept together while deployed, and now that they were home, he wanted to continue while she didn’t?
Now that I think about it, I was worried that Ryan had been with someone else while being away. I noticed right away that Ryan was different in bed. He felt different, more aggressive. I told myself it was the PTSD. I had explained it with intimacy problems, which are typical for people with PTSD. I even read about it online. He didn’t want to look me in the eyes. He was like an animal, demanding and raw.
The thought makes me feel sick. I can’t help but wonder if he has been lying to me all this time.
And why did Sandra end up killing herself right after he visited?
Chapter 7
It’s driving me crazy. The next day, I send the kids off with the school bus. I am washing clothes, cleaning the bunnies’ cage, and walking Rosie, our Golden Retriever. I drive to Publix outside of the base, and, of course, I’m taken aside for a random inspection at the gate, so it takes forever. I buy three boxes of Cheerios, just to be sure Damian is happy while thinking about Ryan. So many thoughts rush through my mind all day. I can’t believe he would cheat on me and then come home and make me feel like it’s my fault. It all makes sense now. It explains his distance and why it was so hard for him to be with us again. He’s plagued by guilt. But does that mean he’s leaving us? Why did he come to our house after he went to Sandra’s? He was at our doorstep when we came home, and I wonder why he did stop by?
Did he sense Sandra wasn’t happy? Was that why he stayed away from the barbecue? Because he felt guilty? Because he feared he was to blame?
I avoid that other thought that keeps nagging at me because it doesn’t make me feel good. Besides, Sandra had cut her wrists. She wasn’t killed.
Yet, I can’t stop worrying. He was there. Did he say something that made her want to end it all? I don’t want to. I really don’t, but the thoughts keep popping up in my mind. I keep thinking about his aggressive behavior and feel his hands on my throat from the day he left—the day he almost strangled me.
No, Ryan would never do that. He’d never hurt anyone.
Except he isn’t my Ryan anymore. This guy is different.
I can’t convince myself, and the worry gets to be too much for me, my paranoia taking over, so I call a friend. I call Frank, who is a military forensic investigator on the base.
“Laurie. Long time no see. How’s it going?”
I give him a long chat about how things are great, busy as usual, and how the kids are growing. I tell him we should get together soon; maybe he can come over for a cookout? But I don’t really mean it. I mean, I like him, I always have. He’s a nice guy and all, but I am just not in a place where I feel like having people over. Finally, he asks how Ryan is doing, and I become suddenly honest. I don’t like lying to people or even pretending.
“He’s not so well, I am afraid,” I say. “It’s tough to get back and well…he’s suffering this time. He’s been staying with friends for some time.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Frank says, but I am not sure he means it. Frank has always liked me, in that way that makes it necessary for me to keep him at a distance. We can still be friends, at least I hope so, just not close ones. As I think about this, I realize that if my husband really has been unfaithful to me, then I don’t have to worry about this anymore. I can have male friends and admirers if I want to.
The thought doesn’t make me happy. On the contrary—it makes me feel sad. I don’t want to get a divorce. I don’t want to be on the market again. I was never good at being single. Ryan saved me from my loneliness when he came along, tall and dashing. I was still in college, getting my journalism degree, and he had just signed with the military. We didn’t see each other much, but the little we did was so thrilling that I soon started to dream of a life with him—even though I knew I’d be one of the military wives—one of those who’d have to send their loved ones off to war, not knowing if they’d come back. I thought I could deal with it…that I could take it. I have always been strong, and I loved him so much; I knew if anyone could survive this, it’d be us. We would be the ones to get through it.
“So, what do you want from me?” Frank asks. “I know you didn’t just call to have a chat. That’d be a first, at least.”
“I need your help with something. It’s important.”
He goes silent. “Okay?”
I tell him what I’ve found. I read him the messages from Ryan’s Facebook account and tell him I am concerned. He chuckles on the other end.
“I can understand your concern about him cheating on you, but I’d hardly be worried about him killing her.”