Chapter 1

I was beat. The twelve-hour flight from Tokyo was always an ordeal and it didn't get any easier as I got older. Even with one of those berth seats in first class on the big triple seven, there wasn't much sleeping for me. I hated flying – not because I was afraid – no just because of the sheer drudgery of it, especially the trans-Pacific routes that took to me to my customers in Asia, Australia and New Zealand.

For a change Sarah had agreed to pick me up. She hated driving from our home in Piedmont in the East Bay to San Francisco International. I didn't know if it was me or the drive she found onerous, but things were going to come to a head in our marriage soon. Over the last couple of years she had become a stranger to me. As her drinking increased, my pleas for her to get treatment not only fell on deaf ears, but usually invoked an outburst, actually more than an outburst; usually scathing verbal attack where she told me to mind my own business. I tried to explain that our marriage was my business, but to no avail.

I hadn't told her why I insisted she pick me up, but she grudgingly agreed, reminding me that the BART train home was faster and more convenient. Maybe for her it was, but after traveling for many hours a seat in her big Mercedes was much preferable to the seats on the train. Anyway I wanted her full attention and I also knew she would not be drinking if she was going to be driving, so at least at the start of our conversation she would be sober.

But now it was 7:30 AM on Sunday morning and I was on the first train of the day from San Francisco International. Sarah and I had arranged to meet when my flight arrived Sunday evening, but my business wrapped up early in Taipei and I snagged a seat on an earlier connecting flight out of Tokyo. I must have called Sarah half a dozen times before I left Tokyo, but there was no answer at our home or from her cell. I was going to arrive about twelve hours early, which put me in to San Francisco about six on Sunday morning. Even if I reached her, I figured it was highly unlikely I could convince her to get up that early to meet me. With no answer, all kinds of thoughts went through my head. Had she finally just packed up and left? Unlikely, but if she had, did I care?

I knew I did care. We'd been married for over twenty years and had two wonderful children. I'd loved her ever since we were kids when we lived across the street from each other. We grew up together and shared the discovery of many joys of life. She had also introduced me to crushing heartbreak.

I grimaced as I thought about how, during our junior year at Berkeley High, she had abandoned me. I was just a math and science geek and she had become an in-crowd cheerleader. We both grew up a lot during the six years we were separated. I hated it but I learned I could live without her. I was now convinced that I was going to find out if I could do it again.

Sarah's alcoholism has worsened over the last few months, especially since our son Matt left for college.

"Dad you've got to get her some help. I know she's drinking a lot, but I've seen her taking all sorts of pills. I told her not to expect me back home ... I love you both, but I can't take her abuse ... and the disrespect she shows you ... I just can't."

He gently chided me for being gone so much but told me he understood.

"I'm worried about her, dad ... I want my mother back."

I hugged Matt and promised to see if there was any way I could get her into treatment. So far I had been rebuffed. It was my intention to tell her today that I was divorcing her. I didn't intend to tell her it was treatment or a divorce, because I knew she would dig in her heels about that. No, I was just going to tell her I was throwing in the towel and that it was obvious whatever we once had was gone. This saddened me greatly. Maybe once I moved out and started the divorce she would come to her senses. Alcohol was a powerful drug, but I knew my Sarah could beat it. I just couldn't figure out what started her down this self destructive path, and why she refused to get help. Did she despise me so much?

So there I was, sifting through the Sunday Chronicle, having the train car almost to myself at that early hour. I paid little attention to the stops as the train moved under the city. I barely registered the driver's announcement of "Embarcadero Station" when I heard the click clack of high heels on the marble platform in the deserted station. I love women in heels and peeked over the top of the paper as she entered the door at the other end of the car. My heart skipped and my stomach lurched when I recognized the woman as Sarah.

What the hell is she doing getting on a train out of the city at eight in the morning?

At that point what she was wearing made its way into my confused and jet- lagged brain. She's dressed like a slut!

She had on a sheer white sleeveless sweater without a bra. Her dark pink nipples were prominent. Below the sweater was a red leather skirt that did nothing to cover the reinforced stocking tops of the dark hose she wore. I could easily see the silver color of the suspender clips. On her feet were incredibly high red patent leather pumps with stiletto heels. Her Auburn hair was disheveled and there were runs in her stockings.

She sat with her head down, doing nothing to hide the tears that streaked her cheeks. She shivered.

I lowered the paper and examined her more fully. She took no notice of me. My Sarah looked like a street hooker on her way home from a rough night. She pulled a dark leather jacket from the large leather tote she carried and pulled it around her shoulders.

I watched her, mesmerized. Part of me wanted to go to her and comfort her, and part of me that was enraged wanted to go to her, shake her and force from her answers about what she'd been doing. It was my turn to shiver as a horrible sick feeling made its way though my body.

How long had this been going on? Did she have one lover, or had she descended to the point she was turning tricks in hotels in San Francisco?

As the train raced under San Francisco Bay her sobs increased. She made no effort to stifle her misery. We were alone in the car and she still hadn't noticed me sitting twenty feet away. I pulled out my phone, and as we came into the daylight of the West Oakland Station I took several photos.

What had happened to her - to us? Why was she doing this?

I knew when we got home I would confront her. I didn't know where I was going to go, but I vowed to pack up today and move out.

Drinking was one thing, but this obvious infidelity - infidelity hell, whoring more like it, was the final indignity. My heart was breaking for what we had and what she was throwing away. My sadness threatened to overwhelm me.

I had only four more stops to think what I would do. I knew it was futile to confront her on the train or in the station. Hell, I'd probably get arrested. No, I'd follow her home and confront her there. Now it wasn't a matter of threatening divorce - threats had been overcome by events. Divorce was a certainty.

Eight minutes later the driver announced, "Rockridge Station". I waited for her to get off first, but she hardly moved. She had wrapped her arms around herself and was crying and shivering, rocking forward and back. Finally as the doors slid open she seemed to realize she had to get off. She moved slowly to the door.

When had she gotten so thin?

As soon as her back was to me I grabbed my carryon bag and left through the forward door just as it started to close. I watched her walk slowly down the now sun drenched platform, her head down. She produced a handkerchief and wiped her tears. My beautiful Sarah, my wife, the woman I loved, looked as miserable as anyone I had ever seen. I was devastated.

Following about twenty feet behind her as she walked down the stairs from the platform, I doubted she would have noticed me had I been right beside her. She fumbled for a few moments in the large tote until she found a small purse and she pulled out her BART ticket and made her way through the turnstile. I followed her down the escalator and into the parking lot as she made her way to her new silver Mercedes S-Class. I photographed her as she opened the car, got in and drove away.

I headed across College Avenue to the other parking lot and then realized to my chagrin I didn't have a car at the station. My car was at the dealer for servicing and they had dropped me off at the train station for my outbound flight, promising to bring it to my home after the work was done.

I stood in the sun on this bright Sunday morning and looked for a taxi - without success. I mentally shrugged, put the strap of my bag on my shoulder, and started walking the two miles home. Fortunately I had dressed casually on my return; polo shirt, khaki Dockers, a silk and cotton sport coat, and comfortable shoes.

As I walked I passed several benches and thought of just sitting and thinking, but I knew it was time for me to get home and face her. Delay would not make things better. After about ten minutes I realized that walking was probably the best thing that could happen. The morning air was still cool and the sun on my face seemed to help restore me. It also helped me vent some of my anger. I knew I could never harm Sarah. I pondered her reaction when I arrived at the house. Would there be tears and apologies, of would there be only a drunken tirade. She seemed so devastated and frail that I doubted she had the strength to put up much of a fight.

What would Matt and Nicole say? Matt seemed to know our marriage was in peril. Nicole had been at college most of the last four years, although she had to have picked up on the tension in the household and her mother's drinking during her short visits home. I really didn't think she'd be surprised.

After about 40 minutes I climbed the hill to our house, the exercise warming my cramped muscles. We had lived there more than a dozen years, most of them happy. I recalled how excited Sarah was when we decided to buy the home. It was two story stucco Mediterranean style, with a huge kitchen and a large master bedroom upstairs that contained an enormous sunken tub and a shower for two. I thought of our first weekend in the house and how we made love in both places. Now our dreams were ashes.

I fished my keys out of the pocket of my sport coat. The house was silent as I walked through the main level to the kitchen. The house was spotless, as usual. Between Sarah's demand for cleaning perfection and a cleaning person every week it usually had the look of an impending photo shoot for Sunset magazine. Even drunk, Sarah cleaned and scrubbed. I did notice a glass and an empty bottle of scotch in the sink. That was unusual.

I headed up the stairs calling Sarah's name. I didn't want her to be startled, although God knows what kind of condition I'd find her in. I fully expected that she'd have changed her clothes and showered and might actually be asleep in our king-size bed. She looked like she hadn't slept in weeks.

I pushed open the double doors to our bedroom, softly calling her name in case she was asleep. I had decided if she was in bed I would just leave her there and talk to her later.

There was no sign of her, although her "whore" clothes were strewn about the floor. That was also unlike Sarah. Somehow my muddled brain noticed there were no panties amidst the garments.

Through the door to the bathroom I heard a song from Sarah's favorite album - something by Sarah McLachlan. I found her music a bit too syrupy, but Sarah loved to listen while in her bath and in her car. I started to turn the knob when Sarah's phone beeped indicating a message. The sound came from the small purse on the dresser. At that point I noticed the mirror and the used lines, of what I suspected was cocaine. There was also a small mound of cocaine on the mirror. I wondered if it was for after her bath.

Good God, Sarah, what are you into?

Next to the mirror was a plastic sandwich bag filled with white powder. It looked like a huge amount. Where would she get that much cocaine? It must have cost a fortune. Was she feeding her habit by trading sex for drugs?

Oh Sarah.

The phone beeped again.

I pulled the phone from her purse and flipped it open and saw several missed calls, all from the same San Francisco number.

I went to her voice mail and put in her password. It had always been the same – our daughter's birthday.

"Sarah, baby ... where'd ya go? We're still having a party here. Call me."

The voice was slightly slurred but I thought it sounded familiar.

I listened to the next message.

"Sarah ... enough fun, baby ... you need to get back here ... you know the deal ... no more candy for baby ... unless you play. You better come back soon!"