Perhaps he was in a meeting, on the subway, or simply didn’t want to answer calls. In any case, this path turned out to be a dead end. I went back to the original plan.
I needed to find a way to see Sarah in person. And if that meant going to the country house in Springfield, then so be it. I opened the map on my phone and looked up where Springfield was.
An hour’s drive from Boston. Not far. But the problem was, I didn’t know the exact address.
Springfield. Not the most accurate location for searches. I looked again at the written phone number.
Maybe I should call after all? What do I have to lose? Determined, I dialed the number. My heart was beating so loudly it seemed every customer in the café could hear it. After several beeps, a female voice came through.
Hello? It was the same voice I’d heard on the video on the flash drive. The voice of my husband’s wife, much longer than mine. “Hello, Sarah,” I said, trying to make my voice sound calm and confident.
“Yes, it’s me,” she replied. “And who is this?” I hesitated for a moment. How should I introduce myself? Under what pretext should I make an appointment? “My name is Laura,” I said, without revealing my real name.
I. I need to meet you. It’s about John. There was a pause on the other end of the line.
Then Sarah asked cautiously. “John? You? A colleague?” “Not exactly,” I answered evasively.
It’s a personal matter. Very important. I’d prefer to discuss this in person, not over the phone.
Again a pause. I almost physically felt her distrust and alertness. “I’m not sure I understand what this is about,” she finally said.
And I’m not in Boston right now. I know. You’re at the cabin, I said. Your neighbor said you’re in the Springfield district.
I could come if you give me the exact address. Were you at my house? There was clear anxiety in her voice. “Who are you? What do you need?” I understood I was scaring her, but I saw no other way to arrange a meeting.
Please, don’t be afraid, I tried to calm her down. I won’t hurt you. I just need to talk to you about John.
About your husband. I said the last words with special emphasis, hoping they would make her think. And again, silence.
This time more. Finally, she spoke, and her voice sounded tense. Where do you know John from? I took a deep breath.
The moment of truth. Should I tell her right now or wait until we meet in person? I’m his wife, I answered simply. We’ve been married for six years. On the other end of the line, I heard a strange sound, like muffled crying.
Then the connection was cut off. Sarah hung up. I stared at the phone screen, not knowing what to do.
Call her back? But what should I say? She’s obviously shocked, maybe she doesn’t believe me. And it’s unlikely she wants to continue the conversation. But I needed to see her.
I had to find out the truth. The whole truth about John, about his double life, about his secrets. I dialed the number again, but this time Sarah’s phone was either off or out of range.
Apparently, she decided to avoid further communication. Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad will go to the mountain. I decided to go to the Springfield district to find her cabin.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I had no other choice. I paid for my order, left the cafe, and headed for the subway. I needed to get to the train station where trains departed for Springfield.
On the train, I continued to ponder the situation. What if Sarah really didn’t know I existed? What if the news about her husband’s second wife shocked her as much as it did me? Perhaps that’s why she hung up. Out of shock and disbelief.
But on the other hand, what if she knew? What if she was aware of John’s double life and actively participated in it? Perhaps they had cheated on me together all these years? At these thoughts, a wave of anger washed over me. How could they? How could John do this to me? And to her? Didn’t he enjoy living a lie, cheating on two women, playing two cards? The train pulled into Springfield station, and I stepped off the platform. Now came the hard part.
To find Sarah’s house in the entire district, filled with rural settlements. I approached the station’s information desk, hoping to find a map of the district or a list of rural cooperatives. And, sure enough, such a map existed.
Rural settlements scattered across Springfield like mushrooms after a rain. Dozens, if not hundreds, of plots, divided into cooperatives with romantic names: Birch, Sunny, Forest.
How to find the right person? I had no idea. But I wasn’t going to give up. I took out my phone and dialed Sarah’s number again.
To my surprise, this time she answered. Almost immediately, as if she’d been expecting my call. “I want to meet you,” she said without preamble.
In an hour, at the Forest Glade café on the outskirts of Springfield. “Do you know where it is?” I replied, saying I’d find it with the navigator. Fine, she continued in the same tense voice.
“So… Come alone. No witnesses or police. This is a conversation between us.”
“Sure,” I assured her. “I’ll go alone.” The connection cut out, and I stood on the platform, phone in hand, hardly believing my luck.
Sarah herself suggested the meeting. She herself set the time and place. So she wanted to talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to her.
I found the indicated café on my navigation system. It was about two kilometers from the station. I could walk or take a taxi.
I chose the latter to make sure I wasn’t late for the meeting. The taxi arrived at the café exactly 45 minutes after the conversation with Sarah. I had 15 minutes left before the agreed-upon time.
I paid the driver and got out of the car. The Forest Glade Café was a small wooden building on the edge of the forest. Nearby, there was a parking lot for several cars.
The place was quiet and secluded, ideal for the conversation that awaited Sarah and me. I walked in and looked around. There were only a few visitors in the café.
An elderly couple by the window, a group of young people at a large table in the corner, and a solitary woman at a table at the back of the room. I recognized her instantly, even though I’d only seen her in photographs. Sarah.
She saw me too and nodded slightly, inviting me closer. I headed to their table, my heart pounding. Here she is, the woman who was my husband’s wife for much longer than I had. The woman who bore him a son.
The woman whose existence changed my life completely. Up close, she looked older than in the photographs. Dark hair with a hint of gray, tired eyes, and wrinkles at the corners of her lips.
But still beautiful, with a special, understated elegance. “Hello,” I said, stopping at their table. “I’m Laura.”
We spoke on the phone. She looked at me carefully, as if assessing me, and then gestured for me to sit down. “You said you’re John’s wife,” she said after a pause.
“Is that true?” I nodded and took my passport with the marriage seal out of my bag. I gave it to her. “My real name is Emily,” I said. “Emily Anderson.”
To my husband. Look.” Sarah took the passport, carefully studied the page with my details, and then turned to the page with the marriage registration stamp.
Her face remained impassive, but I noticed how the knuckles of her fingers, gripping the document, turned white. “Six years,” she said quietly. “You’ve been married for six years?” “Yes,” I confirmed. “And you and John? How long?” “Sixteen,” she replied, handing me back the passport.
We were married in 2009. Even before David was born. Sixteen years.
That meant that, by the time we got married, John had already been married to Sarah for ten years. Ten years with another home, another family, another life. “So you didn’t know about me?” I asked, though the answer was obvious.
