A Second Chance To Get It Right

Chapter 4-1

4

SEPTEMBER 23-24, 1985—SYRACUSE, NEW YORKI’ve made it through this first day (don’t ask me how), and I’m exhausted. My head aches and my body is like a live wire, twitching at every comment and question that comes my way, especially when they’re from Monica and Tommy. Thank God this day is almost over. All I want is to close my eyes and escape this constant sense of anxiety and déjà vu around every corner. It’s like I know some of these people and places, yet their names and faces escape me. For example: Monica. How do I know so much about her? I seem to automatically know how she likes her coffee, her preference for music, her preferred cocktail, reading material, favorite flowers—the list goes on, and yet there’s no memory of us before I got here.

As for myself, lunch on campus today told me I’m not a fan of spicy foods or beer. I’m also less concerned about my wardrobe. Where in my other life, a pullover hoodie and jeans would be anathema, here they seem to work just fine for me. What’s stranger yet is my indifference to architecture and design. I don’t look at it the same way I used to. I notice it, but there’s no thrill in seeing a new building go up and add its profile to the city skyline. Where once I would stop and study the lines of a flashy façade, I now pass it by without a second thought. Maybe it’s because I’m scared out of my wits. How do I navigate this world, and what’s more, how do I blend in with the latest slang and fads?

Monica sensed my confusion, too. At dinner, she mentioned I’m not acting like myself, that I’m distracted, as if I’m somewhere else. She’s not wrong. The thought of never seeing my kids again is killing me. To be honest, I’m wishing for my old life back even though it was in the dumper. A voice in my head tells me I should be happy about this new turn of events, a chance at a do-over, but I’m not despite the fact I’m married to this beautiful woman who seems to treat me like gold. Then again, so did Tiff at one time, until I let my marriage slip away between my fingers. I shudder to think of being trapped here, broke and alone again.

As much as I enjoy Monica’s attention and being the target of her affection, there’s no spark between us. Shouldn’t there be one? I mean, we’re married, right? If the universe is going to dump me here, why wouldn’t it have the decency to insert the appropriate feeling for her into the program? And then there’s Tommy. He didn’t ask for a father who couldn’t be a father to his kids in another life. I’m still getting used to him calling me Padre. I’m afraid of getting too close to him, of not measuring up to the man he’s known all his life. I don’t like pretending I’m something I’m not, even in this alternate version of myself. If I’m here for the long haul, I better do better or he’ll grow up looking at me indifferently just like my son Ted did, or should I say, does or is it, will? I’m so turned around I don’t know which way is up.

I sit up in bed and look out the window as Monica brushes her teeth down the hall. As I wait for her, my thoughts turn to what’s going to happen when the lights go out. I can’t argue I didn’t enjoy this morning’s romp, and the thought of another one is appealing. If I indulge her, is that being disingenuous? Probably. But I’m stuck in this new life, so I might as well enjoy it, right? But the truth is, going forward in this new life without “the spark” will get stale sooner or later, and then what? I’ll end up right where I was in my old life. I shudder to think of it happening all over again. But how do you rewire yourself, become someone different? I don’t have a clue, only that I don’t want to make the same mistakes again.

Which brings me to something I’ve never been very good at: love. For me, love is difficult. I’ve never felt intense feelings for anyone except my kids, but that’s different. With them it’s built in, factory installed—most of the time, anyway. With a woman, it’s different. It’s either there or it’s not and so far, it’s been the latter for me. I wonder if there’s some chemical reaction in the body, or a gene that fires up when the right woman comes along? Do I even have a love gene? My grandmother told me for her it was love at first sight with my grandfather. They met on the boat coming over the big pond from Europe at eighteen and stayed together for sixty years until God took them up within two days of each other to the big mansion in the sky. Speaking of Him, I wonder if he’s having a good laugh watching me flounder down here. I’m not a fan, but I don’t dismiss Him either. I like to keep my options open—just in case.

The door opens and Monica sweeps in. She’s wearing a silky black and white number that accentuates every inch of her. She puts her glasses on, flips the covers back, and slides in next to me. There’s a smile on her face as she grabs her book on human reproduction along with a pad and pencil off the night table. She’s in her third year working toward her P.A. license while interning at St. Joe’s. I’m in my second year of my PhD studying clinical psychology with a focus on marriage and family therapy. A moment later, she’s dug into the reading. I suppose I ought to look at the paper that’s due for my class at the end of the week, but her being so close is distracting. I try to ignore the stirring between my legs as I read what I’ve completed on my assignment so far. How do I know this s**t?

As I try to concentrate, the questions of my life here continue to roll in and distract me. How did Monica and the “me” before I got here get together in this new life? I don’t remember anything about this “me” before I woke up. Who was I back then, or should I say, now? What happened to the “me” before me? Where did I go? If I loved her then, why don’t I now, or do I love her somewhere deep inside the “me” I was before I got here and just haven’t tapped into yet? That’s f****d up! My mind whirls. I need to stop this insane loop threading through my head, stop trying to logic it out, because there’s no making sense of it.

I set my pencil down. It’s weird writing by hand after working with my laptop for so long. More than that, it’s clunky and frustrating because my head is thinking faster than my hand can write. How did I ever manage getting anything done on paper back in the day? I read what I wrote, running a line through a word here and there as the goddess beside me scribbles on the pad on her lap. She’s freshly washed and a subtle apricot fragrance lifting off her is distracting me. I set my paper aside and roll toward her.

She turns a page and looks down at me, then pats my shoulder. “I need to get through this section, Baby.”

She likes calling me, “Baby.”

“I know.” I get out of bed and go downstairs to put some space between us so she can study. Pouring a glass of wine to take the edge off, I step outside onto the back deck. It’s a cool, clear night and the moon is bright overhead. I go to the railing, conflicted. It’s like there’s a tug of war going on between the man I used to be in my other life—the one who was used to getting what he wanted—and the guy I am here, who’s more inclined to think of others over his own needs. I peer up at the lit window in our bedroom, thinking about Ted and Crystal, and all the other people I left behind. I wonder if they’re looking for me. Are Ted and Crystal going nuts over my disappearance? Do they even know I’m gone yet? My throat tightens. I want to wrap my kids up in my arms, feel them against me. I want to tell them I’m sorry I wasn’t there for them; that Dad f****d up, but that’ll never happen now.

At length, I drain my glass and head back upstairs. When I walk in the bedroom, Monica looks up. “Everything okay?”

I slip back in bed as she shuts her book and sets her glasses on the nightstand. “Yeah, just thought I’d give you some space so you could study.”

“Well, I’m done now,” she says and snuggles up to me. Running her fingertip down my chest, she adds, “You sure there’s nothing wrong? You feel anxious to me. It’s not like you. Is there something you want to tell me about? Problems in class?”

And have you call the Good Humor Man on me? I don’t think so. “Class is fine,” I answer, which is the truth, oddly enough. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you love me?”

She blinks, then pins her elbow on the pillow and cradles her head in her hand. “That’s a strange question.”

“I know. Humor me?”

She shrugs and gives me one of her coquettish smiles. “Okay. Umm…I love you because you see me for me. You make me feel wanted.”

That’s a start, but I want more. “I do?”

She rolls her eyes.

“What?”

“Fishing for compliments, are we?” she says with a knowing lilt. I sense the Italian in her tone.

Nailed me. Okay, fall back to option two. “Just being me,” I say, tossing my best puppy dog expression back at her.

Another roll of her eyes. “Uh-huh. Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Not too hard,” I tease, then wink at her.

“You wish,” she says, and grins. For a minute, I think she’s going to roll me over, but instead her grin melts away and she gazes at me as if I’m the only man in the world. Her Italian tone thickens. “Do you have any idea what you mean to me? You make me feel safe and secure. You’re my shelter, Baby. No matter what happens, I always know you have my back.”

“And I always will,” I say, then words I don’t recognize come from me. “Especially that sweet ass of yours.”

She cuffs me playfully. “Alan, I was being serious. You’re such a bad boy.”

Suddenly, the young man I am in this life takes over, and I’m powerless to stop him. “Hey, I never heard you complain,” I say, rubbing my arm.

“Well…no. But there’s always a first time,” she says, tapping my chin with her finger. “Okay, I answered you, now what’s up? I know you pretty good. You get clingy when you’re overwhelmed.”

I tamp the young man inside me down. “I do?”

I get a pointed gaze coming back.

“I’m busted, aren’t I?”

She nods. “Afraid so. Out with it.”

I pause. Should I put this out there? See where it goes? Okay, let’s do this. “Have you ever not felt like yourself, like suddenly, you don’t know who you are anymore?”

“Wow, that’s…Wooph!” She whiffs her hand over her head. “But okay, yeah, I get it. I used to a long time ago when I was in high school. You don’t know what it’s like when you’re built. People look you up and down—don’t take you seriously. Anyway, I went around thinking I wasn’t good enough, so I’d let people take advantage of me so they’d like me. Pretty sad, huh?”

Her answer isn’t what I expect, and all at once I remember how I used to treat her like a bootie call sometimes when we were young and dating back in my old life. I avert my gaze so she won’t see how innocently she ran a dagger into me. Suddenly, I feel like a d**k.