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

A simple act, such as reaching across myself to grab my coffee, and it all went to hell. The truth is, I had my eyes on the poem, when, pen in hand, I reached for the cup. The pen clicked against the ceramic, and the next thing I knew, an ocean of steaming liquid was flowing all over my work, all over me, all over the desk, and all over the floor around me.

I shouted, “Damn it all! Someone get me paper towel. Come on damn it, I need paper towel.”

Michael barely took a minute to come to my side with a full roll of toweling, which I grabbed from his hand without so much as a grunted, “thank you.”

As I set to work mopping up the mess, cursing up a storm, Aviva made the mistake of telling me to calm down, that it wasn’t such a great catastrophe. I knew she was right. I knew that I just needed to let the paper dry, and I would be able to salvage the work I had already done.

However, all I could do was yell at her, “An hour of writing is ruined. An hour wasted.”

That’s when Veronica, in an effort to calm me, piped in, “Just let everything dry, and we’ll (notice, she said, ‘we’ll,’ as in, ‘I’ll help you’) see what we can save.”

I guess I don’t have to tell you that her offer to help went unnoticed by me.

“There’s no saving any of it,” I moaned. “I’ll never be able to read through the coffee stains.”

“I’ll help you,” she said. “Maybe with two sets of eyes we’ll be able to salvage most of it, and then you can work from there.”

“Maybe,” Aviva offered, “three sets of eyes will help?”

Not to be left out, Michael, who hated reading in general, offered, “Four sets.”

This outpouring of help—of love--from my family went far to calm me.

I went into the bedroom, took my guitar, and picked my way through Suicide is Painless. I spent an hour with the guitar in my hand, playing through my rage and frustration, until, by the time I played the last notes of Stairway to Heaven, my emotions were more serene. Also, the paper was dry enough to begin salvaging the poem.

The four of us worked until it was time for Veronica and Aviva to start preparing dinner. Michael and I, working until dinner was on the table, managed to finish the job. After dinner, I was able to finish the rough draft of that poem.

By the way, anyone who has read the book, Poetic Tales, can tell you that the anchor, “Reward,” is, by far, not one of my best pieces.

If I’m being honest with myself, I have to say that the above is one of several occurrences that have given me pause, that has made me wonder if maybe I was imagining the distance that seemed to be developing between my family and me.

I’m not sure.

I could never quite shake the feeling that my wife and kids—particularly my wife—were constantly embarrassed by, and angry at, me. There was always—well, maybe, often—an edge to their tone when they responded to me, that I couldn’t read any other way than that I had somehow irritated them.

I even tried, several times to talk it out with Veronica. She would either resist the discussion or would tell me I was imagining it.

On one such occasion, we were in the car.

“I can’t help feeling,” I said, “that I am an intrusion in your lives.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

“You always seem to tune me out, or you seem irritated.”

She just looked at me blankly.

“I tell you something,” I said, “and you don’t respond. So, I repeat myself. Then, when you do respond, there’s an angry tone in your voice.”

‘I just speak loud enough,” she returned, “so you’ll hear me respond, since you don’t seem to hear me.”

“I feel like there is a wall between me and the family I love with all my heart. Have you any idea how it hurts to love people as I love you and kids, and to feel like they would be happier if you weren’t in the picture.”

“Oh, come on,” she said

“I’m hurting, and it seems that no one cares,” I complained.

“Nonsense.”

“I feel like everything I say, and do, is an annoyance to you.”

She didn’t even look at me, but she said, “You can feel any way you want.”

I really didn’t know how to respond to that. I simply dropped it, and from that time I withdrew into myself more and more. My pain grew with each day. My only relief was with friends outside the house—my involvement in the writers’ group, my work on the paper.

I found myself wishing I had the kind of marriage that Jason and Jeri had. They had moved to Florida, so lately, my only contact with them was on Facebook. Jason was still active with the group, through social media, so he and I were still sharing, and commenting on, our poems and stories.

I thought of talking to Jason about what I was going through, but found it was one subject I couldn’t talk about, even with my best friend.

I tried addressing my issues in my writing, but that only intensified the pain, rather than alleviating it.

Suddenly, after some soul-searching, I realized that I needed to do the kind of soul-searching I couldn’t do in what I had come to see as a toxic environment. I knew what I had to do.

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.

Publication Date: 12-03-2019

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Dedication:
For Ilene, Danielle, and Jordan Friedman all of whom I love most in this world In loving memory of my parents William and Lillian Friedman