Chad asks his friend Nolan over to keep him company while Camille and her parents speak in French when his in-laws from France visit. Chad learns that Nolan can speak French as they are eating supper, and he also shares a family secret.
Camille, my spouse, is the epitome of Frenchness. We have been together ever since we first met at college, where she was an exchange student studying international politics.
The parents of Camille are French, but they come visit us twice a year. Although I’ve picked up a few strange French words and phrases, I haven’t really stuck with the language.
Apart from mon chéri or other French foods, I’m not too knowledgeable. Even though it’s only been four days since my in-laws arrived, I’m beginning to feel excluded at the dinner table when they all start speaking in French.
I made the decision to meet Camille’s parents and have dinner with my friend Nolan. I would also have someone to chat with in that way.
Imagine this now:
Everybody is seated at the table, savoring their bouillabaisse. While Camille and her parents were blissfully speaking in French, Nolan and I discussed an audit that was going on at work.
It all looks good, doesn’t it? False.
Nolan’s face turns as white as a ghost during our work-related talk, and he gives my arm a forceful elbow poke.
“Go upstairs and check under your bed. Trust me,” he whispers urgently.
Laughing it off was my first reaction because it was so absurd. However, a glance into his broad eyes convinced me that this was no joke.
To the table, I said, “Excuse me.” “I’ll be right back.”
I grudgingly made my way to my bedroom, experiencing a sensation akin to entering an unusual French noir movie. I stooped to peer beneath the bed after picking up Camille’s silver silk robe from the floor.
I felt as though I was going to have a heart attack since my heart was beating so quickly. However, there it stood—a single black box.
With trembling fingers, I opened the box and swiftly went through the contents because I wasn’t sure if Camille would come seek for me. Towards the bottom of the box, there were several pictures of Camille in almost nothing at all.
My body began to feel sick, and my heart began to beat faster.
What have I recently discovered? I questioned myself.
Just as I was going to reorganize everything, everything went dark.
After several hours, I awoke in a medical ward with vacant beds all around me. My eyes acclimatized to the new location and the overpowering scent of detergent, but the bright light still beamed down on me.
I said, “Woah,” my throat raw.
I then noticed that Nolan was sitting next to me, his arm supporting his head.
“You passed out in your bedroom, mate,” he replied. “What happened?”
Then I remembered everything. Under the bed, Camille’s box, my hyperactive heart rate from a panic attack mingled with my ravenous curiosity.
I did, however, sneak a peek inside the box. It proved to be a Pandora’s Box of my own. Small trinkets, love letters to a man named Benoit, and compromising images of Camille helped piece together a story of betrayal.
As it happens, Camille was lying about having an affair.
“You were taking forever,” Nolan said. “So, I followed you, and I found you passed out on the floor. I closed the box and pushed it back under before calling Camille and an ambulance.”
“How did you know?” Considering the warning Nolan had given me, I inquired.
“I did French throughout high school, Chad,” he replied. “I understood Camille to have mentioned hiding everything under the bed during their conversation. I apologize.”
“Where’s Camille?” I enquired.
“At the cafeteria, she said she needed to stretch her legs. So, she went to get coffee.”
I leaned back and considered the letters my wife had been getting.
The next day I was released from the hospital, and Nolan took me home. Camille fussed over me, pouring me a nutritious drink and assuring me that everything was well. Naturally, though, I wasn’t. Nothing was in order.
I had to correct the record that afternoon. I couldn’t feel the same way I used to when I looked at Camille.
I murmured, “I can’t continue in this marriage,” as Camille gave me some juice.
She questioned, “What are you talking about?”
“I know about the black box under the bed.”
Camille paled.
“I can explain,” she said, jumping up.
“I saw more than enough, Cami. I don’t think your version of an explanation would change that.”
“Just listen,” she said. “My parents set up the meeting with Benoit. They wanted me to be with someone French—to have completely French children.”
I glanced at her, perplexed as to how she thought I would sit there and continue to listen.
“So, after they arranged it,” she continued. “I met him. And we hit it off, and our friendship grew.”
“Divorce is what I desire.” I answered, unwilling to listen to anything else, “Immediately.”
Camille became agitated, accusing me of spying on her and violating her privacy. I reminded her that after what she had done, there was simply no love left in our marriage, despite her threats not to sign the divorce papers when they arrived.
“Give me another chance,” she pleaded.
But none of it was what I wanted.
During the brief divorce proceedings, Camille disputed every aspect of the agreement, including the house and spousal maintenance. She even insisted that I cover her yearly airfare to France. All things but the house, I declined. Anyhow, I didn’t want to be there any longer. I’ve moved into a bachelor pad nearer to my workplace.
Yes, I am heartbroken. Well, at least I’m not lying anymore. And that feels freeing.
I am also appreciative to Nolan for being honest with me and supporting me during our divorce.
I’m curious now if Camille will wind up with Benoit; if so, I know her parents would be overjoyed.
How would you have responded if you had been in my position?