Chapter Five
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What did it matter what people thought, the questions and manipulations of doctors and neighbours. Right now they were happy, right now there was joy for the both of them.
Wendy slows the car down and turns off the main road, onto a smaller dirt road that leads them to wind their way upwards, into the hills. The lowering sun bursts through the trees in bright flashes as they climb. She realizes that she is racing the sun, but that by rising up she is cheating the race; there will be enough time to reach her destination before dark. She begins to relax.
What did he know, anyway, this Doctor? The more she thinks of it, the more absurd it seems that she should even let him get to her that way. She doesn't need to protect her marriage from the likes of him, because there was no way he could understand, no way that any one else could understand a marriage. It was hard enough for the people inside of it to know what was going on. Perhaps that is part of it's sanctity. It's sense of being unknowable, in a way.
As she tries to think back on what they'd had, how their relationship had grown, Wendy realizes that most of the time it was just that, passing time. Time passed together.
A few instances of the bond between them still could rise up from the shadows of memory. For Wendy these would be moments of worth for her, when the veneer of Desmond's stern authoritarian dominance had yielded, ever so slightly. And now Wendy can remember: the time when she'd taught him math.
Of course she didn't really teach him how to do math in the literal sense. It was in the early stages of his first book, and he'd asked her to help him out with the calculations. They had been dating for a few months, still living separately. She'd been delighted to help, to show off some of her own area of expertise – and one night, in his cramped downtown apartment, after several hours of writing out equations and explaining their connection to his theories, several hours of brainstorming and learning and teaching, he had leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses with one hand and reached out and rubbed her shoulder with the other hand.
You're so smart.
She had felt herself blush and then she looked at him, and he was seeing her, it had seemed. She was so... all over the place, most of the time, then and now, really. But the math, it had calmed her, centred her, because when things added up she could just settle on that one thing and not let anything else matter. And he seemed to understand that, looking at her, together with her at his desk.
That had been a good night. And there had been other times, other instances of understanding that told her why she had chosen to marry him. But for the most part – except for the troubles that had happened, but she doesn't really want to think about that right now – for the most part it was just the accumulation of time spent together. Just like now. That's what they are doing, right now. Spending their lives together. They're still a couple, same as always. Time is still passing and nothing has really changed.
And now they have arrived, they've reached their destination – a small parking area amidst a grove of trees, overlooking the river valley. They move slowly across the parking lot, bits of gravel popping beneath the tires. The sun is still barely up in the sky, across the valley.
She pulls the car up to the edge of the cliff and sets it into park. The valley sprawls out below, a panoramic view emblazoned across the windshield. Desmond goggles at the sun as it begins to set, across the valley, dipping below the carpet of trees that line the opposite ridge. Birds coast and soar in the sun's dwindling rays. The river winds and meanders across the valley below. Lover's Lane. They had come here so long ago, when they had first started dating. Wendy reaches out and takes her husband's hand. He continues to watch the birds.
Now that she is feeling calmer, Wendy can allow herself to think back again on the session with the doctor. Funny thing, at this point most of it doesn't seem to register much in her mind, not right now, anyways. Of course the part of the conversation when Mister Doctor Alan had really gone too far inquiring about their troubles, that she can remember well enough, thank you – that bit seemed to have woken her up quite enough, and she has to remind herself that it doesn't matter, after all. But before those tense moments it had been kind of fuzzy, their talk in his office. What had she said to him? She supposes it was about the same thing as always, her feelings for Desmond. But it's all really quite simple. You got used to someone, that's it. That's all love is. That's all that it needs to be. Just that one thing.
The suns dies, alone at the edge of the world. Wendy and Desmond sit in their car at their lover's spot and watch the valley's shadows rise like steam into the deepening night.
Wendy slows the car down and turns off the main road, onto a smaller dirt road that leads them to wind their way upwards, into the hills. The lowering sun bursts through the trees in bright flashes as they climb. She realizes that she is racing the sun, but that by rising up she is cheating the race; there will be enough time to reach her destination before dark. She begins to relax.
What did he know, anyway, this Doctor? The more she thinks of it, the more absurd it seems that she should even let him get to her that way. She doesn't need to protect her marriage from the likes of him, because there was no way he could understand, no way that any one else could understand a marriage. It was hard enough for the people inside of it to know what was going on. Perhaps that is part of it's sanctity. It's sense of being unknowable, in a way.
As she tries to think back on what they'd had, how their relationship had grown, Wendy realizes that most of the time it was just that, passing time. Time passed together.
A few instances of the bond between them still could rise up from the shadows of memory. For Wendy these would be moments of worth for her, when the veneer of Desmond's stern authoritarian dominance had yielded, ever so slightly. And now Wendy can remember: the time when she'd taught him math.
Of course she didn't really teach him how to do math in the literal sense. It was in the early stages of his first book, and he'd asked her to help him out with the calculations. They had been dating for a few months, still living separately. She'd been delighted to help, to show off some of her own area of expertise – and one night, in his cramped downtown apartment, after several hours of writing out equations and explaining their connection to his theories, several hours of brainstorming and learning and teaching, he had leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses with one hand and reached out and rubbed her shoulder with the other hand.
You're so smart.
She had felt herself blush and then she looked at him, and he was seeing her, it had seemed. She was so... all over the place, most of the time, then and now, really. But the math, it had calmed her, centred her, because when things added up she could just settle on that one thing and not let anything else matter. And he seemed to understand that, looking at her, together with her at his desk.
That had been a good night. And there had been other times, other instances of understanding that told her why she had chosen to marry him. But for the most part – except for the troubles that had happened, but she doesn't really want to think about that right now – for the most part it was just the accumulation of time spent together. Just like now. That's what they are doing, right now. Spending their lives together. They're still a couple, same as always. Time is still passing and nothing has really changed.
And now they have arrived, they've reached their destination – a small parking area amidst a grove of trees, overlooking the river valley. They move slowly across the parking lot, bits of gravel popping beneath the tires. The sun is still barely up in the sky, across the valley.
She pulls the car up to the edge of the cliff and sets it into park. The valley sprawls out below, a panoramic view emblazoned across the windshield. Desmond goggles at the sun as it begins to set, across the valley, dipping below the carpet of trees that line the opposite ridge. Birds coast and soar in the sun's dwindling rays. The river winds and meanders across the valley below. Lover's Lane. They had come here so long ago, when they had first started dating. Wendy reaches out and takes her husband's hand. He continues to watch the birds.
Now that she is feeling calmer, Wendy can allow herself to think back again on the session with the doctor. Funny thing, at this point most of it doesn't seem to register much in her mind, not right now, anyways. Of course the part of the conversation when Mister Doctor Alan had really gone too far inquiring about their troubles, that she can remember well enough, thank you – that bit seemed to have woken her up quite enough, and she has to remind herself that it doesn't matter, after all. But before those tense moments it had been kind of fuzzy, their talk in his office. What had she said to him? She supposes it was about the same thing as always, her feelings for Desmond. But it's all really quite simple. You got used to someone, that's it. That's all love is. That's all that it needs to be. Just that one thing.
The suns dies, alone at the edge of the world. Wendy and Desmond sit in their car at their lover's spot and watch the valley's shadows rise like steam into the deepening night.