My divorce buddy signed his final divorce papers today. It’s been a long time coming. At least from the outside looking in.
I remember the day he called and told me that he and his wife were separating. My then-husband and I made the same decision three weeks earlier.
I call him my divorce buddy because we walked through this thing – the dissolution of marriage – together. Hand in hand. On occasion, literally, but mostly figuratively.
A buddy, like in kindergarten, required for just about everything. To walk down the hall, ride the bus, go to the bathroom. I don’t know if it was because two are harder to lose track of than one, or that if one should stray, at least he or she wouldn’t be lost alone.
That’s what it felt like. We weren’t lost alone.
We would talk on the phone nearly every night for hours. And on the nights we didn’t talk, we texted. Until I came to Chicago that summer – 2012. Something changed. Seemingly everything.
There was a chasm. One that hadn’t been there the night before when we talked for three hours when my red-eye from Sea-Tac was delayed. I couldn’t get close no matter how hard I tried.
My Rabbi laid it out in simple terms. We no longer had a phone and 2,500 or so miles between us. We were standing face to face. I had feelings. And expectations – although I tried not to.
I don’t know what he had. I often said I was not “in this” alone, but face to face, I was no longer sure.
And then, when separated by miles and a phone again, we seemed to fall back into a comfortable intimacy. I spent two weeks in Rwanda that summer, and called him from Belgium, where I stopped for a few days before coming home.
My travel companions continued down the long airport corridor to their connecting flight home, while I found myself in baggage claim – orange hard case in hand. I ran my credit card through the phone and dialed. It was 2 a.m. in Chicago. I knew he’d be up.
He sounded surprised and excited to hear from me. I told him we had to talk quickly because I had no idea how much this call was going to cost but I had a feeling it would be a lot. (It showed up as $65 on my credit card statement. Worth every penny.)
He gave me some practical instructions about Brussels — the airport, the train and the city — and I began to cry. He was doing “that thing” that he does. “That thing” I always loved about him. Even when we were both married and I had a crush on him but he had such good boundaries that I never worried about it.
He made me feel safe. I told him that.
And then I told him I had to go and blurted out quickly, “I love you,” and before I put down the receiver he said, “I love you too.”
He had said it just once before. The night he called me to tell me he was getting a divorce. At the end of the conversation. When I promised him he wouldn’t be alone. That it just wasn’t possible…thinking but not saying, “You can be with me, silly.” Instead, I said, “I love you, my friend.” And he said, “I love you, too.”
It wasn’t a romantic “I love you.” From either of us. Either time. Regardless of my feelings, in those moments, my expression was pure heart connection. I believe his was too.
Tonight he told a group of us that he signed his final papers. My eyes welled up, tears of empathy, of gratitude and of memory.
Later, I took him aside, and told him I was sorry. That I understood. That I knew. That his “news” reminded me of what we had walked through together. He nodded and wrapped his arms around me.
I leaned into his ear and whispered, “I love you.” Silence. And then he said, “Thank you.”
Awful.
I wanted to tell him I knew he loved me too. But I didn’t. I guess because it wasn’t necessary. Because I already knew.
Because I’ve changed just a little. I am no longer interested in proving myself as necessary. Indispensable.
And because our situation has changed too.
Learning he has signed his final papers, that his divorce is nearly complete, feels like an ending. (My divorce was final in September 2012.) That we have fulfilled our obligation to one another. That our karmic contract is complete.
I felt a little something break off. It felt sad. But also necessary, right and true.
I didn’t join him and the others for dinner. I came home – alone – instead. Also right. True.
Our friendship isn’t over. We’re just no longer lost together. We can let go of one another’s hands.
A Wandering Jewess 