Searching by Mitchell Isaac Friedman (best thriller books to read txt) 📕

Michael: What do you mean? 

Me: I mean that I have let my feelings of inadequacy—my feelings that I am not the husband and father that you guys deserve—has influenced my reactions to things. To you. 

Aviva: I suppose I could be a better daughter. You’ve told me a number of times that my tone is disrespectful or nasty. 

Me: Yes, sometimes it does seem that way to me—the same, sometimes with your mother and Michael. But, it’s also be possible that I’m just too sensitive. Maybe, I’m just too insecure. I need to figure it out. 

Veronica: Therapy? 

Me: Most likely yes, but. . . . 

Veronica: I think that might be a good idea. Wait, what do you mean by “but”? 

Me: I think I need to go off and be alone for a few days, to reflect. To do some serious soul searching. Otherwise, I don’t think any amount of therapy would help. 

Veronica and the kids were silent, absorbing this. Then. . . . 

Veronica: You’re not suggesting a separation, are you? 

Me: No! No! Absolutely not! I love you guys too much for that. I love you all with all my heart. That’s why, in my paranoid states, it hurts me so much when I convince myself that you’d prefer not to have me around. 

Aviva: I don’t understand, why do you feel that way? 

Me: Sometimes I feel like you’re intentionally leaving me out of family conversations. When I ask what you’re talking about, I sense a tone of irritation—even hostility—in your responses. (Veronica was about to comment, so I held up my hand to hold her off.) I said, “sense.” When I think rationally—after I explode in frustration and hurt—I find myself wondering if I misread the tone. In fact, I end up believing that I did. 

Michael: So, why do you feel the need to go off alone. Why can’t you just work through these feelings with therapy. 

Me: Right now, I’d be working through my feelings while in an emotionally toxic environment. And to be clear, I have this fear that I’m the toxin. I know this is hard to understand. I’m just asking you to try. I plan to be away only a few days, then I’m coming back and most likely starting therapy. 

Again the silence, and then. . . . 

Veronica: I really don’t understand, but you know I have your back. How long? 

Me: No more than a week. 

Michael: Dad, I love you. I know I don’t say it enough, but I do. 

Me: I know Michael. I love you too. 

Aviva: I’ll try to be better, when you come home. I promise. 

Me: I love you Viv. Just remember, the problem may not be just you; it may be me too. In fact, my problem is that I’m not at all sure the problem isn’t all me. That’s why I need to do this. 

They all got up, surrounded me, and embraced me in a hug. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. 

Michael: When you come back, maybe it’s not just you who should start therapy. 

Me: What do you mean? 

Michael: Maybe we should start family counseling. 

Veronica: I think that might be a good idea. 

I considered this for a moment. . . . 

Me: Maybe. It’s something we’ll talk about when I come home. 

Veronica: Where will you go? 

Me: I hadn’t considered it. I guess I’ll head back to the old neighborhood. 

Veronica: Where would you stay? 

Me: I’ll call Jason and Jeri. Or, I’ll just stay with my sister. 

I had sensed that this conversation was going to be hard, and now that it was over, I felt that it was not as hard as I thought. I admit I was even surprised by their support. 

As I prepared to go I was feeling hopeful.

Even through the arguments and fights (what marriage doesn’t have a few of those), my love for Veronica has grown--and continues to grow--every day. Even through the arguments and fights I remain convinced that she is my soul-mate. I’ll admit that there are times when I have wondered if she feels the same way as I do, but they are few. I really can’t, and don’t want to, imagine my life without Veronica and our kids.

And that is why the conversation, though necessary, was difficult.

This is a long story, and it starts with a divorce.

That divorce, from my first wife, Chana, had been finalized. I had hand delivered the signed papers. Although that marriage was one that should never have been, in the first place, I grieved. I had not wanted the divorce. In my mind, it meant that I had failed, and I was not one who could accept failure. Still, when she told me she that she wanted the divorce, I had to accept that I had no alternative but to agree not to contest it. I had to accept that it was for the best.

Chana may have been far from the ideal wife, but, looking back on it and being honest with myself, I would have to admit that I was, by no stretch of the imagination, an ideal husband. I would come home from work, have dinner, and spend the evening in my office, at the typewriter, while she sat alone watching television.

When we did talk, we were usually engaged in toxic fights. She resented of the time I spent pursuing my dream. I became defensive every time she demanded that I be “more realistic” about my chances of success. I was inattentive, and she was unsupportive. So, you see, our marriage was doomed to be a disaster.

One week, to the day, after I signed the final divorce papers, and hand delivered them, I was sitting, still brooding over my failure, at the bar of The Seaside, a pub where Chana and I used to hang out with Debra a friend of mine from work. I couldn’t tell you why I chose to hang out, that night, in The Seaside. It must have been kismet. Because. . . .

Looking, to my left I saw her sitting there at the bar, alone. I sat there stealing glances to my left at this incredibly beautiful woman whom I just knew was way out of my league. Whenever she looked in my direction I averted my eyes. I felt like a real creep.

She finally said, “Hi.” There was friendliness in the greeting--which took me by surprise.

I stammered out my reply, “Uh h-hi.” My inner voice screamed, Real smooth, fool.

"I'm Veronica," she said. "I think I may have seen you here a couple of times."

"Possible," I replied. "I used to hang out here on Friday nights with some friends. I'm Gene."

She smiled and asked, “You alone, tonight?”

“Yeah,” I replied. Sure, why not just come out and tell her you’re a loser. “Just divorced.” Really, why would you tell her that?

“I’m alone too,” she said. “When was the breakup?”

“Actually, signed the papers last week,” I said.

“How long were you together?”

“Three years.”

“Wow. Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Drowning your sorrows. Do you mind if I join you?”  

Without waiting for me to answer, she moved onto the barstool that stood empty between us, and said, “I just broke up with my boyfriend last month. Gave him the ultimatum.”

“Ultimatum?”

“You know, ring or goodbye. Five years together, and he chose goodbye.”

She laid one of her hands on mine--it was like an electric charge went through my hand. Then she said, “I guess misery loves company.”

“I guess so. Really does sucks, doesn’t it?”

She gave me a scrutinizing look, and said, “Mmm, I not so sure it does suck. I mean, here we both are. I mean I have always believed that things happen for a reason.”

“I guess you could look at it that way,” I said, and I offered to buy her a drink, and she accepted.

“If you want to talk about it, I’ve been told that I’m a really good listener,” she offered. I really didn’t feel comfortable, but I figured that it might do me some good to talk about it with someone who knew neither me nor Chana.

“We met,” I began, “on a blind date, during our freshman year at Queens College, set up by mutual friends. I had just broken up with the girl I had been dating since freshman year in high school.

"I had been feeling really low over that break-up. After a month of me moping around the house, and neglecting my studies, my dad had suggested to my friend that he and his girlfriend set me up with one of her friends. Talk about embarrassing.

"Anyway, they arranged a double date, introducing me to a friend from her Accounting class, Chana."

Veronica kept her gray-blue eyes locked on mine. It seemed that she was peering deep into the depth of my soul as I weaved my tale of sorrow.

"Chana and I dated for four years. When I got my bachelor’s degree we went out to dinner to celebrate. It was then that I proposed. I know, stupid. Fresh out of school, and no job, and I'm proposing marriage."

“What was your degree in?”

“English Lit.”

Talking to Veronica was beginning to feel therapeutic—and surprisingly easy. She didn't say a word throughout my whole recitation. I told her how we got married as soon as I got my first job. How shortly after the wedding I was laid off. I told her how not long after I got laid off the marriage went sour, and we would fight constantly.

“I refused to give up on my dreams, so I focused on finding editorial jobs.”

As I spoke, I could feel that electric charge from Veronica's hand gently squeezing mine.

“I eventually found a job with the Queens Daily Ledger. It didn’t pay much, but it was a job—something for the resumé. Chana wasn’t happy. She kept telling me that we couldn’t keep up with the bills on what I made at the Ledger—every night. I tried to get her understand that I only planned on staying there for a year, and then I would start sending out my resumé again, with actual editorial job on it. All she wanted was for me to be ‘realistic’ and find a real job.”

Veronica pouted, “Doesn’t sound very supportive.”

"I had wanted to be a writer since I was a kid. In fact, it was all I ever wanted to do. Chana couldn’t understand that."

"What do you write?"

Happy to change the subject, I told Veronica, “I’m still working for the Ledger, writing a column on modern ethics. But I also write poetry and short fiction.”

"I’m not really a big fan of poetry--actually I don’t like it, nor do I understand it--but I'd love to see some of your stuff sometime," she said. Did she just say, “Sometime”? Did this mean I had a chance of seeing her again?

"I'm doing a reading at the Quill and Ink Bookmart this Saturday night. Would you like to come?"

In answer, she wrote her number on a napkin, and then asked me for mine.

"I have to check my calendar, but I'll give you a call, tomorrow, and let you know," she said.

The next day Veronica called. “Gene, it’s Veronica.”

“Hi,” I must have sounded a little surprised.

I could hear the chuckle as she said, “I did tell you I would call. It turns out I’m free Saturday. Do you want me to meet you