Cloudland by Joseph Olshan

his affair with Fiona was the unfortunate trade-off.
    “Is this a mutual decision, or is it more one-sided?”
    “Mutual. You’ll probably find this hard to believe, but it’s been coming on for a long time.”
    What did I know? The depths of other people’s relationships were always inaccessible. The news of any breakup always made me sad. It provoked thoughts of my husband and my inability to forgive him, the loss of Matthew and the fact that he’d had to go all the way to Thailand to feel sufficiently cut off from me.
    As soon as Anthony left, with renewed vigor I went back to looking for the Wilkie Collins novel. I spent a frantic hour combing through my piles and my shelves and then suddenly remembered that Breck had asked to read it and I’d lent it to her.
    I looked at my watch. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. I knew the best way to reach my twenty-two-year-old was sending a text, a method of communication that all my friends, including my college roommate, Theresa, used but which I reviled partly due to the fact that my cellular phone was more than five years old, equipped with a number pad rather than a keyboard. I grabbed the digital fossil out of my night table, turned it on, and seeing that it barely had a charge, plugged it in and sent my message: Didn’t I lend you a novel called The Widower’s Branch , a Wilkie Collins?
    The message was returned almost instantaneously.
    Yup. Hey from Short Hills Mall. Why?
    I’d like you to overnight it to me.
    Done. Now, can I call you?
    The house phone rang a moment later. “How long have you had it?” I began.
    “Like a year and a half.”
    “But of all his novels, why did you want to read something unfinished?”
    “For just that reason. I found that bit intriguing. It also looked interesting and kind of creepy. I thought it might be a fun, quick read.”
    “With no resolution.”
    “No, but an outline.”
    “Well, I got nervous because I couldn’t remember what I did with it. What did you think of it?”
    “I actually didn’t get a chance to read it. Vi snapped it up and read it and then I forgot about it. But I know exactly where it is. It’ll be no problem to get it to you. Here in New Jersey, the overnight shipping companies actually pick up from your house.”
    “Certainly a great reason to live there!” I quipped.
    “You can’t be sarcastic about it since you’ve never been to visit.”
    “Yes I can. I know New Jersey. I grew up in New York City … hello! And I will visit.”
    “Not holding my breath for that one. Anyway, I’ll package the book up as soon as I get home.”
    Once we got off the phone I decided to be whimsically out of character and send her another text. Thank you, darling lamb.
    NP, was her response.
    She knew I hated it when she made words into acronyms.
    *   *   *
    I had Breck when I was twenty. During her childhood she would accuse me of naming her after the popular shampoo that disappeared from the market when she was around five years old. I actually intended to name her after Hemingway’s Brett Ashley; however, when the hospital misspelled her name on the birth certificate, her father and I decided we liked “Breck” better.
    Our relationship became strained when Breck was thirteen and I discovered that her father was having a long-term love affair. Rather than agreeing to end it immediately, he asked for a “timetable” that would allow him a chance to wean himself away from the woman, as though she were a drug that would cause him acute withdrawal if he cut off his reliance too quickly. Outraged, I immediately filed for divorce. At the time I foolishly tried to explain the dynamics of the situation to Breck, who, Daddy’s girl that she was, futilely begged me to give her father the second chance he’d requested.
    However, as soon as I began divorce proceedings, my husband promptly ended his affair and begged for a reconciliation. But how could I reconcile? I was afraid of forgiving him, afraid