Pop Quiz

Whatever...what mattered then, and what mattered now, was that Tom had turned the tables. One way or another, he was now suing her for divorce. She was on the defensive. And there was nothing Evelyn could do to stop it.

Now, here I am in this office, hoping that I might stop it myself.

Nicole looked at the quiz again.

"Your name is Nicole."

That's my first name, yes. What about my last name? Tom's last name...my married name? The one I'm trying to keep...

Would it still be her last name today, she wondered, if things hadn't fizzled out with Jake? If she were still hot-and-heavy with him? Would she even be here, now?

Why I am trying to keep Tom's name? Why have I been trying to call off the divorce? Because I love Tom?

How can I say that, after I told him—and myself—that I didn't? Was I lying when I said that? Was I just wrong?

Maybe it was neither. Maybe she'd fallen out of love with Tom for a while, but she'd since fallen back in. Yes, that was it! She'd been telling the truth, back then, when she was not in love; it was just that now, the truth was different. Of course she loved Tom now! All these feelings...

I want him, damn it! I want him more than when...

When...

When I had him. When he was a sure thing, when he was mine, and I was restless for something more. Or at least, something else.

Now he's a decent, unattached guy and I'm lonely, despondent, and afraid. I'm ashamed, too, and I don't know any way to redeem myself, in my eyes and everyone else's...except by being the good wife again.

Once more, a soul singer's voice intruded on her thoughts. This time, it was Tina Turner.

"What's love got to do, got to do with it?"

I want him...I want to him to be my husband, and me to be his wife...but do I love him?

Or am I just adrift, desperate for rescue, swimming hard for the nearest lifeboat?

"What's love / but a second-hand emotion?"

Even if it might be love, how long would it take for her to be sure? And how long would it last, this time? Where would they be a year from now, five years, ten years—back where they were at the start of their marriage?

Or back where we were when I had that discussion with Sheila...

Or when I turned down Italy...

Or when I got involved with Jake...

Or when I started this divorce?

"What's love got to do, got to do with it?"

Then again, Nicole thought, what did she have to lose by trying? If it didn't work out, if they'd have to call it quits later, it wouldn't hurt her then any more than it was hurting her now, would it? In the meantime, she'd have Tom on her arm, she'd be able to look people in the eye, she'd be around more for the kids, and Tom would...

Tom would...what?

Why should Tom give us another chance? How could he live, not knowing if I'm really staying? If I really love him? If I even really know how I feel?

Easy for me to say I've got nothing to lose by trying. But for him, there's plenty of potential downside. Against that, what's the measure and probability of the potential reward?

"Who needs a heart / when a heart can be broken?"

Nicole's eyes returned to the quiz in her hand.

"Your name is Nicole."

The statement was followed by blank space; there was nothing to circle. How, then, was she supposed to give her answer? Perhaps Tom did not expect an answer?

That wouldn't make any sense, he must have...oh.

Nicole reflected on her previous answers.

Oh. Of course.

Insight, understanding—a terrible awareness—rumbled within her. Like an earthquake, it shook her. The ruins of her old world, the world to which she'd hoped to return and make new and whole, collapsed into rubble all around her.

The whole quiz has been leading up to this statement. It calls for the ultimate answer. It's just that the answer isn't meant to be circled.

It's meant to be signed.

My name...I'm supposed to affirm it by signing it.

There was no signature line on the quiz, but Nicole knew why. She lowered the quiz and scanned the legal documents set out on the table.

Yes, I'm supposed to sign my name...but not on the quiz.

Nicole closed her eyes, hung her head, and began to cry. Couldn't her answer be different? Couldn't she put down the pen, wait for Tom to return, and read him the letter she'd brought—the letter that would explain the affair, admit how horribly wrong it was, promise that it would never happen again, and beg for forgiveness?

No. That would be the wrong answer.

It's not telling the truth about Jake and getting us past him that really matters, is it? It's seeing the truth about my marriage, what it became, what was lost, and what isn't coming back. Maybe that's what Tom came to see, why he had his lawyer turn the tables on me, and why he's refused to talk since then.

Nicole thought again about her last meeting with Tom, in the park.

When I watched him walk away and found I couldn't speak, maybe it wasn't just shock that silenced me. Maybe some part of me knew it wouldn't be fair to plead with Tom to stay and hear me out. Maybe I knew, some part of me knew, that I'd been fooling myself about how I felt about him and how things would be if we got back together.

Still crying, Nicole opened her eyes. She put down the quiz. She did not, however, put down the pen. She would need it a little while longer.

I thought answering everything correctly, passing this test would mean getting another chance with Tom. An opportunity for a chance, at least. I was wrong.

Holding out for that opportunity would have meant failure, in every sense of the word. Because it would have been futile. If would have been...false.

* * *

When Nicole was nearly done signing the divorce papers, a funny thought came to her. It was gallows humor. Still, she managed a weak chuckle.

First time I've ever passed a test and gotten no reward. No "A," no gold star, nada.

It was then, underneath the last document, that she found the envelope.

It wasn't a generic, business envelope, like the one Tom had pushed towards her before leaving the room—the one that had contained the quiz. This one was a very fine envelope. It was not unlike the one Nicole had brought to the meeting.

In flowing script, Tom had handwritten her name on it. With shaking hands, Nicole began to open it. For the third time in less than an hour, she found the simple task of extricating a sheet of paper from an envelope maddeningly difficult.

When the letter finally was free, she began to unfold it, but something felt wrong. She realized that this law office was not the place to read the letter, whatever it might say. She put the letter in her purse and left.

Once outside, in the cool winter air, Nicole walked and walked. She wandered aimlessly, it seemed, until she found herself at a park. She followed a familiar path to a certain garden and came to a certain bench. She sat down, surrounded by rose bushes bereft of bloom or leaf.

She thought she'd spent all her tears back in the law office, but as she read the letter, tears flowed freely again.

* * *

Dear Nicole,

I don't know if you bothered with the quiz or whether you ignored it. Either way, you've found this letter, so you've passed the real test. I'm sorry to have put you through it; I know it must have hurt. After everything you've put me through, I find it odd to feel sorry about hurting you, but I do.

And I'm grateful for that. It means the anger is finally starting to fade. And it means there's something left in me beneath the anger; some capacity for empathy that might find another object some day. Hearts can be broken, but I've heard they can heal, too. We'll see.

I believe you now understand that this divorce isn't just about the affair. I don't see that as what killed our marriage. No, our marriage had already decayed. The affair was just a mushroom, spawning from the rot. It was a poisonous mushroom, no doubt, but while I hear it turned out to be short-lived (like most mushrooms), let's not poison ourselves further by picking at it.

I'm sorry for failing you in many ways. When we got engaged, I imagined I'd never be one of those men who would stop buying flowers, on a whim, for his girl. Stop writing her love notes. Stop dancing with her. But those things, and too many other things, happened.

When you said you were leaving me, and proceeded to do just that, I felt like part of it—maybe a lot of it—was my fault. I still feel that way, but I can't accept all the blame. And no matter how right or wrong you were to be unhappy, I can't ignore how you gave up on me, and how you lied to me even as you were asking to come home.

I know you had a lot you wanted to say to me today. I know you especially wanted to say three particular words. The truth is, you don't love me. Not in any way either of us could trust and try to build a new marriage upon.

I still love the person I married, but I you've not been that person for a long, long time. I can't see you ever being that person again. Not in my eyes, at least. I have to move on.

There was nothing you could have said or done today, or any other day, to stop the divorce. All you could do was stop fighting it, the way I stopped fighting it, when I realized and felt the truth. I wanted to give you an opportunity to realize and feel it too, and you have.

I appreciate that. Ironically, this formal ending of our marriage is something we haven't managed in a while—a truly intimate act. For one last time, our hearts and minds are together about something. I'm glad we had it in us to be that way, at this juncture; I would not want either of us to live the rest of our lives doubting whether this divorce was the right thing.

I'll always be sad about what happened to us, but anger, pain—I've got to try to get past those feelings. I'm moving on, but not completely away. We'll be seeing each other, and I don't want it to hurt every time. We have children. We have to be able to talk and cooperate.

In finally being honest and letting me go, you've done something very hard, but ultimately right for both of us. In return, I am going to work hard to be able to say three words to you. Not "I love you," but the next best thing I could ever offer. I can't say those words now—not with conviction. But I swear, I want to be able to say them someday.

I want to be able to say, "I forgive you."

- Tom

* * *

When the tears abated enough that she could see, Nicole looked around the rose garden. On the ground, she spied the remains of a flower. She imagined it was once very beautiful.

Were we doomed from the start? Some things don't last forever. Maybe love is like that. No matter what the romantics say.

Nicole's gaze wandered. She surveyed the rose bushes, so barren in the grip of winter.

Or maybe love isn't a flower; it's the rest of the plant. It goes through seasons, through cycles. Sometimes it's covered in green leaves and vibrant blooms. Sometimes it's not, and all you notice are the thorns.

But if it's fed and watered, if the weeds and parasites are kept away, if the sun is not blocked from reaching it...then the leaves and flowers can come back. Over and over again.

Nicole's thoughts started to drift to "what ifs," but she halted them. She rose from the bench, strode over to the remains of the flower, and gathered them. On her way back to her apartment, she stopped in at a greeting card store and purchased an elegant envelope-sized box.

That night, she placed the withered petals in the box, making a bed of them. She removed her wedding ring and placed it in the center. Next, she set down Tom's letter to her, and on top of that, the letter she'd written but never read to Tom.

She closed the box and put it away. Perhaps if her daughter ever married, Nicole would give it to her. It would make an odd gift, but it would serve as a warning.

Then again, Nicole thought, such a warning might be the greatest gift she could give a new bride.

* * *

Thanks again to Rehnquist for his input, and thank you for reading.