Attorney Interlude

Reflections: Attorney Interlude

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," I supplied the platitude woodenly as I took my seat, setting the folders I'd brought on my lap. I did everything woodenly at the moment. I didn't like this life so much anymore.

It had only been 24 hours since I'd witnessed my wife's long-term affair with her brother. Could that be true? Could it only have been 24 hours ago that my whole life came crashing down? It seemed so much longer than that. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Was this even real? I mean, the past few days seemed almost like a bad dream. My life couldn't have fallen apart that quickly, could it? This must be some kind of nightmare. I'd wake up in a little while, just a little while, and Amber would be lying next to me and I'd share my nightmare and she'd laugh and console me and tell me everything was going to be alright...

"Well, Mr. Breuster, I'll tell you the truth," Mr. Owen Arnold, attorney at law, greeted me with a smile. He was an older man with steel gray hair and piercing blue eyes. "I don't normally take many cases any more. I let the junior executives like my son handle most of them. When Rory said it was you, though ... well, I got a mite curious. To hear Rory tell it, you walk on water. I figured this might be interesting enough to hold my attention."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir," I replied evenly. I had to play the role; had to complete this nightmare so I could wake up. "I think this is going to be a rather mundane case. I don't anticipate anything interesting."

"Sir is for my father," he smiled. "Call me Owen."

"Yes, sir ... Owen," I replied hesitantly. Everything with me was hesitant any more. I'd been hesitant getting out of bed this morning. I'd been hesitant when I spoke to the girl at the hotel front desk to extend my stay for a few more days. I felt ... rudderless. Drifting. Dreaming.

The man sat back in his chair and looked at me for a few minutes. There was a look on his face like he was evaluating me. Finally, he spoke.

"Can I offer you a drink? Whiskey, maybe?" he offered. "Oh, wait. That's right. Rory said you don't drink. Coffee, then? Tea?"

"No," I replied softly. I was on edge. I was a magician again, a sorceror, like I'd been at the foster home, or the group home, or the halfway house; I could wave my hands in front of my face, close my eyes, and become invisible. Isn't that how dreams went? Even bad dreams? "No thank you."

He sat back again and stared at me for a few minutes more. "Okay, then," he said, finally. "You're looking to get a divorce, is that right?"

"Yes," I responded, still with that wooden feeling. Why else would I come here? This wasn't a social call. The inane chatter only helped to solidify my feeling of hope; this had to be a nightmare, now.

"Hard thing, getting divorced," he said quietly. Even dreaming, I got the feeling that he was still evaluating me. I got the feeling he had started evaluating me as soon as I'd come in and never really stopped. "I should know. I've gone through it twice already not to mention all of the cases I've taken over the years. I've seen it all; cheating, arguments, abuse ... So why do you want to dissolve your marriage?"

"Irreconcilable differences," I murmured as I'd rehearsed; I'd sat in my dream hotel room, in front of my dream mirror and rehearsed a dream speech I was going to make to this dream lawyer.

I wanted to tell someone, though. I wanted to scream to someone, anyone, that my wife was having an affair ... with her brother. If this were truly a nightmare, it shouldn't matter, should it? I loved my wife, though. Still. Even in a dream, I couldn't do that to her. I wouldn't do that to her.

"Of course," he murmured, obviously disappointed in my answer. "That's probably everyone's favorite ... especially when they're not really sure why they're getting divorced."

"I know why I'm getting divorced," I said evenly. I felt unclean, though. I felt ... broken.

"Of course you do," he said agreeably. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here. I suppose your proof of wrong-doing is in that folder on your lap. I want you to know right now that we're in a no fault divorce state; it means you don't have to have a reason for the divorce. I don't need to see your proof and I really don't want to see it."

"This isn't my proof," I replied quietly. Hesitantly. Woodenly. For a moment, I started to doubt that this was a nightmare; the folders in my lap felt so real, so ... final.

I leaned over and placed the top folder on his desk. "I spent last night compiling as accurate a picture of my net worth as possible. I've included every bank account and dollar amount I know of, down to the penny. All of my assets are in there, down to the clothes on my back."

Panic. I felt panic rise within me. I could remember compiling that list. If this were a nightmare, should I remember that?

His eyebrows raised in surprise. I felt a small glimmer of satisfaction at his surprise but then I beat it down into my stomach with the rest of my emotions.

"I'm surprised," he admitted. "Most people I see bring what they believe to be proof of their spouse's wrong doing. They think it'll make things easier. It doesn't. Nothing makes things easier except time."

He leaned back and looked at me for a moment. He was always doing that, it seemed. He seemed to constantly be measuring me. "Who do you think she's cheating on you with?" he asked.

"Wh-what?" I sputtered back.

"Irreconcilable differences," he said, pursing his lips. "It's either because the person seeing me has fallen in love with someone else or his wife has and he can't prove it. The shell-shocked look about you tells me that it isn't you running around, which means it's your wife and you can't prove it. So ... who do you think she's cheating with?"

'Tell him!' something inside of me screamed. 'Tell him all the sordid details!' I actually opened my mouth before closing it. Even in a hallucination I couldn't bring myself to say those words, though.

"It's just ... irreconcilable differences," I said quietly, closing my eyes briefly.

"Relative, then?" he said, his voice damnably smug.

"Wha-What?" I sputtered again.

"Son, I've seen it all," he said quietly. "I've sat in this chair a long time and I've become pretty good at reading people. I can tell you're hurting. From what I know of you, what Rory tells me, you're not a man to make an unsubstantiated claim against someone – not even your wife. So, I don't think you THINK your wife is cheating; I figure you got some kind of proof. Now, if it were someone competing for your wife's affections you seem the type of man that'd go Scorched Earth; either burn the competition and try to win her back or, failing that, leave no ground for either of them to go to. Unless you couldn't, meaning it was either one of your relatives or one of hers. Now, Rory tells me you're an orphan, so ... it's one of hers..."

"Her brother," I whispered, shocked, before I could stop myself. "Oh god ... forget I said that..."

I don't know why I said that. It didn't matter. I was stuck in some perverse delusion, remember?

"Don't worry," he said, his voice even. "Attorney-client privilege. Nothing you say leaves this room. Now, are you absolutely sure she's having this affair?"

"I caught them in bed when I came home early from out of town yesterday," I whispered, almost willing it to be untrue. Was it truly only yesterday? I tried to stop myself from speaking but I couldn't.