“Believe me,” he says, “if there was anybody else I could have called, I would.”
“I love you,” I say. “I do. But it’s been so long since I believed, well, it’s almost as if that never happened in the first place.”
“Listen to me! It’s serious this time!”
“It always is serious,” I tell him, keeping my own voice calm. “But I’ve had an especially long day, one that has included the death of somebody who was scheduled to testify in my trial today. So I am about to go to bed and hope tomorrow will be better. And whatever your trouble is, I urge you to do the same.”
“I need to see you,” he says.
“Where are you?”
“The restaurant.”
“You want to drive all the way out here tonight? Not happening.”
I hear traffic sounds at his end.
“Jane, listen to me! I am in fear of my life!”
His language, even in two languages, French and English, has always been dramatic, and occasionally overwrought.In fear of my life. Who talks like that?
He does.
“Is this about gambling, Martin?”
There is a pause.
“Yes.”
“How much this time?”
“Too much,” he says.
The traffic sounds become more muted now, as if he’s moved into an alley, or away from the street.
“It’s worse than it’s ever been before,” he continues. His voice, something I once thought was so much of his charm, because of the accent, sounds like a band about to snap. “Even signing over the paper on the restaurant might not be enough to get me out from under this time.”
Again, I keep my voice calm. “You promised the last time I loaned you money that it would be the last time I loaned you money,” I say.
Once a conversation like this would make me angry. Or annoyed. Now it just fills me with sadness, and even pity. He’s tried Gamblers Anonymous in the past, but it’s never stuck, maybe because his addiction is even more powerful than he’s able to comprehend.
What does make me sad is him still thinking I can be the one to fix him, even though we both know I can’t. I do love him, despite everything. And have tried.
And failed, repeatedly.
I’ve known only winning in my career as a trial attorney.
The opposite is true with him.
“Get help,” I say. “Find a GA meeting tonight, there’s always one going on somewhere in the city.”
“I needyourhelp!” he says.
“I’m sorry, Martin. I truly am, because as much as you’ve hurt me, and you’ve hurt me a lot, I truly do care about you.”
I hear him rattle off something in French then, something that used to happen all the time when we were still together, and having another argument, either about his gambling or the other women.
When he finally stops, I say, “Can I ask to whom you owe the money this time?”
