Pray for no rain

January 2017. I had spent the greater part of a month consumed by fears that I was being betrayed once again, and then catching myself talking myself off the ledge. Was this paranoia justified? Was it a sign of being unhealed? Was it my intuition, and I was right?

As I said in my last post, I had to know. It seemed the only way to get a definitive answer, and so I purchased a digital voice-activated voice recorder, and started making plans for how I would plant it, sight unseen, to collect the evidence I needed. Gretchen had placed hers under the seat. What was the underside of the seat like? I didn’t know. Was it fabric like the seats? Was it metal, like the frame? Was it something else entirely? I prepared as best I could, and decided on double sided velcro in the event its the former, and double sided tape in the event of the latter. I brought it home, read the manual (yup, I am one of those people), and set about making a decision to put the device in place the next morning.

Morning came quickly, and my stomach was all aflutter in nervous butterflies. I was worried about what I might learn, yes, but these butterflies were different. These were more about the nervousness I felt in violating my husband’s privacy, and I for a split second I identified with spouses who go behind their spouse’s backs, and I realized I could never be a cheater. How do they live in this place perpetually? How do they walk into a room, smile at their spouse, all the while knowing they have a dirty secret? It was enough to stop my appetite, and I felt unwell. I honestly don’t know how they do it. It takes a certain constitution, maybe, and I don’t have it.

The car had been parked outside for weeks in the middle of winter. It was dry and cold outside, well below freezing. As soon as I heard the shower in the master bathroom turn on, I knew my timer had been set. He didn’t take long showers, but I knew I had maybe 7-10 minutes max. I darted out the door, not bothering even to wear a coat. I grabbed the keys, taking note of their position so that I could return them, just so, and unlocked the doors. Once inside. I set about feeling the underside of the seat. Metal. OK, that meant double sided tape was the best option. My fingers fumbled as I quickly tried to tear open the package, and apply the tape to the long flat back side of the recorder. I had practiced the night before how to turn it on, how to set up a file, and how to begin a recording within that file. With the battery in place, I pressed the power button firmly with numbing fingers, and the red light illuminated. Because I had chosen a voice-activated model. I knew that it would not begin recording until a voice was heard. After all, this would be sitting in his car for a full day before capturing the sounds of his evening commute, and I didn’t want to drain the battery, nor did I want to have to fast forward through empty air being recorded in a parked vehicle for hours unattended. I pressed the double sided tape firmly against a flat part of the seat’s underside. It wouldn’t stick. I hadn’t factored in the cold, and that tape doesn’t adhere well to cold metal. I needed another plan. I quickly searched the car for other options. In the visor? No, one sunny drive into the sunset would leave it crashing down into his lap. In the glove compartment? No, I wouldn’t hear much with it trapped inside a box on the passenger side. Backseat under the floor mats? A quick test and listen revealed it was too muffled and the actual movement of the device under the mat may cause unwanted noise as it rubbed against the microphone. I’m running out of time. Is he out of the shower? Has he called my name and I haven’t answered? Might he be looking for me? Is he standing in the window watching? Will I get caught red-handed? My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and knocked in my chest. With nowhere left to place the recorder, my eyes spotted a black umbrella lying plainly in the passenger seat. How long had it been there? It was January after all, the rainy season had ended months ago. I thought maybe its like those times you leave something somewhere long enough, and it soon becomes a part of the landscape, and the oddity of it being in such a strange location becomes commonplace, unquestioned, even normal. Maybe the umbrella had been there for months, maybe it would remain there for months more. I didn’t have time to think, and so I quickly tore the velcro closure tab that held it closed, and carefully slid the voice recorder up high under the fabric, and nestled it into the metallic bones of the umbrella. I then pulled the fabric tight to keep it hugged in position, closed the velcro tab, and placed the umbrella back on the seat. Desperate to get back inside and resume the normalcy of a typical school-day morning, I glanced quickly to make sure the red light wasn’t visible through the umbrella’s fabric, and exited the car, locking it from the remote as I ran back inside, heart racing, mouth dry as a bone, replacing the keys as I had found them.

Once inside, I resumed my activities of packing lunches into backpacks, feeding children and dogs, signing permission slips, and loading up the car for the morning drive to school. “Time to go guys!” I yelled up the stairs. I left the driveway with the kids safely belted into their seats, and was reminded of the voice recorder also tightly nestled into its own seat. I watched in the rearview mirror as his car in the driveway grew smaller and smaller as we drove away. And I prayed for no rain.