Searching - Mitchell Isaac Friedman (top novels of all time TXT) 📗

Chapter 1: A Letter

Reading this letter will be painful, I know, but I ask that you consider the pain I’ve been living with. Try to imagine what has been like for me to love you with all my heart, and to feel uncertain of my place in your hearts. I’ve told you, a number of times, that I cannot go on living as the way we have, only to feel that my words seem to fall on deaf ears.

What I am doing, I have to do.

Please understand; please try not to blame me.

I know that my perception of the situation might be unfair to you. But, this is how I see it.

 

Veronica, my beautiful wife: I have been in love with you from the moment I first saw you sitting at the bar. Given my situation, I was sure I would never get beyond polite conversation with you. And that intimidated me. All I could do was sit there stealing glances to my left at the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

It was you who made the first move, remember?

“Hi.” That was it, and—I know this is trite—my heart skipped a beat..

"Uh, h-hi,” Fool, I berated myself. I so wanted to talk with you, but could think of nothing to say.

You asked, “Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Just divorced.” What the hell is wrong with you, why would you tell her that. Shut up before you make a bigger fool of yourself.

"When did you break up?”

“Actually, last week,” I said. Schmuck, change the damned subject..

“How long were you together?”

“Three years.” Sure, tell her what a loser you are.

“Wow. Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

By this point, I was sure that I had blown any slim chance I might have had with you. Probably for the best. Probably too soon anyway.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend,” you said, “last month. I had given him the ultimatum.”

“Ultimatum?”

“You know: ring or goodbye. He chose goodbye.” Saying that, you lightly placed a commiserating hand on mine. “I guess misery loves company.”

I took a chance, “Can I buy you a drink?”

A smile, a nod. And we sat there sharing our sob stories.

We sat there till closing, then you gave a slip of paper and said, “Here’s my number. When you feel ready call me; maybe we can go out together sometime.”

A month later, convinced that I had missed my opportunity with you I called anyway.

 

We hadn’t dated very long before I had the courage to tell you that I had fallen in love with you. To my amazement you said that you had fallen in love with me too.

 

Had we settled into a comfortable rut, or had our love cooled?  I wish I knew. All I really know is that to my perception you seemed distant and disinterested.

For some reason that I could never discover, you seemed to go cold on me. I would suggest going out, and either you were not in the mood, or you would cite our meager finances as an excuse. You even seemed to rebuff most of my romantic advances. I frequently wonder if I satisfy you on the rare occasion when those advances actually lead to love-making.

My attempts at simple conversation are met with monosyllabic grunts. Your responses frequently have an edge to them. If I ask whether I had done something to upset you, you say that I hadn’t. But, your tone says that I most surely had. You just will not tell me what it is and I’m left trying to figure out what I did, and how I can make amends.

All too often I feel as though I am talking to myself. I’m lonely, even in your company.

Let’s face it, we no longer seem to have anything in common.

Believe me, Veronica, you are the love of my life. It hurts that I am not sure whether you feel the same.

 

Aviva, my darling daughter, my miracle. I wanted to be a father so desperately that it hurt when it seemed it would never happen. Then you were born.

How well I remember the joy of reading to you at bedtime. We always read the same three books—you even started reciting them with me as I read.

As you got older, and started learning to read in school, we would share the reading, I would read one line, then you would read one line. Eventually you were able to read whole pages, and we would trade off that way.

Eventually, you were reading by yourself—but you still wanted me in the room with you. I would tuck you in, give you your book, and you would read to me. You were so proud of yourself and my heart would burst with the pride and love I felt for you.

 

When you were twelve, things began to change. Everything I did seemed to embarrass you. It was as though you were embarrassed to be around me.

Everything I did for you seemed to lead to a fight.

You even got angry with me when Mom and I signed you up for tutoring.

 

We had a sort of truce when Michael was in Hebrew school. You would come with us as I drove him to the synagogue. Then we would go to the library so you could do your homework while I prepared my lessons for the next day, or graded student papers. On the way back to pick Michael up we would stop to get a cup of coffee—well, hot chocolate for you—and would talk about school, or anything else that was on your mind. You were even seeking my advice again.

 

You started college and things soured again.

How many times have I picked you up when you’ve been out with friends? How often have I tried to have a conversation with you, only to meet with the same monosyllabic grunts that I would get from your mother in response?

Can you imagine the agony a father feels when his darling daughter, his miracle, seems to be unwilling to be in his company?

 

And Michael, my son, my buddy. I can’t begin to tell you how much I relish the memory of teaching you to throw a ball, and to hit. I know that I may have seemed reluctant when you wanted to have a catch—usually because I was engrossed in whatever book I was reading at the time—but you have to know that our games of catch were a joy for me.

Michael, I can’t begin to describe the fullness of my heart as we went to synagogue together every Saturday while you were in Hebrew school. I felt that we were forging a special bond. In truth I still feel some of the warmth of that bond. I often wonder, however, if that feeling is mutual. Do you feel it as well?

I can’t begin to tell you how proud I was as you recited your Haftorah at your Bar Mitzvah. It was an even greater joy for me that you continued to come to synagogue with me after your Bar Mitzvah.

But that stopped when you entered college. Of course, I understood. But it did hurt.

Lately, I have been feeling that you, too, have been distancing yourself from me. It seems that everytime I try to help you, give you advice, it is resented. We frequently end up in a shouting match. Why is that?

 

Why is it that the family I adore seems to despise me?

 

I try to involve myself in your lives because I love you all with all my heart. It seems that my love runs up against a stone wall.

 

It is partly for this reason that I am doing this.

 

I said partly. Here’s why:

 

I realize that if there is a stone wall between us, it is just as much my doing as yours. I realize that with my attention to my students, my books, my writing, and my other obsessions I have may have created a distance between us. I also realize that I have used my pain as an excuse to widen the gulf, every bit as much as I have used my occupations, or preoccupations—my part in the wall—as a defense against the pain I have been feeling.

 

It is time to tear down the wall, and close the distance.

 

I have a lot of soul-searching to do. I need to be alone in order to find the answers.

 

I will call as soon as I get to where I am going.

 

I love you all with all my heart, but this is something I must do.

 

Please understand.

Chapter 2: A Conversation

Leaving the letter on Veronica’s night-stand made me feel like a coward. Doing it this way just didn’t seem right. I had to do this face to face. It was the only way she and the kids would understand. I had to look them in eyes, and lay out my reasons and my plans in detail and clearly. I owed it to them.  

 

I tore up the letter, and waited until they woke. This was going to be hard. But, it had to be done this way. 

  

I had been feeling as that lately a stone wall had gone up between my wife, and kids, and me, that I could not tear down. I had been feeling like a failure as a husband, and father. I would frequently find myself on the defensive, often picking fights with Veronica, or Michael, or Aviva. How much of it was their fault, and how much of it was actually my fault, I really did not know—nor do I know even now. I just knew that I had these strong feelings of isolation and inadequacy. There seemed to be a gaping hole in my very soul, and I knew I had to do something to rid myself of these feelings. 

Before I could rid myself of these feelings of inadequacy, I had to come to some understanding of their source.  

I had considered therapy—as will be seen, I never ruled that idea out—however, I needed to get away, to go someplace where I could think, and reflect. I sensed that therapy would not work until I could take an honest look into my “heart of darkness.” Until I could do that, I would not, I sensed, be able to talk openly and honestly with any therapist. 

I was not about to go off on this self-exploration without trying to explain myself to Veronica and the kids. 

 

We gathered in the family room. 

 

Me: I know that I have not been the ideal husband and father. I know seem to blame each of you for all my issues. Whenever I had difficulty with a piece I was writing, I lashed out at you, when the real problem is that I am frustrated that I haven’t been able to make a living at what I really want to write—that I am stuck writing for the Ledger. I often feeling that you would prefer it if I wasn’t around. 

Veronica: That’s ridiculous. We need you. You know that. 

Me: Yes, you need me. I do know it. I also, in my more lucid, rational mind, know that you love me. 

Veronica, Aviva, and Michael (in unison): Yes, we do. So what’s the problem? 

Me: