My husband never cared about the calendar, but suddenly an entry appeared on his phone every Wednesday at 5:00 PM – “physiotherapy.” I called the clinic he's gone to for years. They said they don't have any physiotherapist and that Mr. Krzysztof hadn't been in for a visit in eight months.
If I hadn't glanced at his phone screen that evening, I'd probably still be making him sandwiches for the second shift and believing I had a normal life. But I glanced. And I couldn't un-glance.
The phone was lying on the kitchen counter, screen up. Krzysztof was taking a shower after work, and I was slicing bread. A notification popped up – a calendar reminder: “Physiotherapy, Wednesday, 5:00 PM.” An ordinary entry.
But Krzysztof never used the calendar. In twenty-eight years of marriage he never entered a single anniversary dinner, dentist appointment, or the children's parent-teacher meeting. He remembered everything in his head or didn't remember at all. And suddenly – a regular entry, every week, the same time.
I set down the knife. I stood there with a piece of bread in my hand, listening to the sound of water behind the wall, and felt something cold creep down my spine.
My name is Jolanta, I've worked in the communications department of the city hall in Lublin for twenty-one years. My life was always arranged like the forms on my desk – orderly, predictable, free of surprises.
Krzysztof worked as a driver at a transport company, came home at various hours, but always came home. Bartek, our son, had finished his studies and lived in Kraków. Ania, our daughter, was still studying but rarely called. We were like thousands of Polish couples – side by side, in one rhythm, without great emotions but also without great quarrels.
The next day at work I couldn't concentrate. I kept moving the same documents from the left side of the desk to the right and back again. My colleague Basia asked if something had happened. I said I'd slept badly. During my lunch break I locked myself in the bathroom and called the clinic on Lipowa Street, the one Krzysztof had gone to for years for his back.
“Good morning, I'd like to confirm my husband's appointment with the physiotherapist. Krzysztof Walczak.”
Silence. Tapping on a keyboard.
“Ma'am, we don't have a physiotherapist. We only have general practitioners and an internist. And Mr. Walczak… just a moment… Mr. Walczak hasn't been here in eight months. His last visit was in October, a blood pressure check.”
I thanked her and hung up. I rested my forehead against the cold tiles and closed my eyes. Eight months. Every Wednesday at five. More than thirty times he had gone somewhere where there was no physiotherapy at all. And thirty times he came home, and I served him dinner.
Over the following days I watched him. I didn't make scenes, didn't search through drawers. I simply watched. And I saw things I hadn't noticed before – or hadn't wanted to notice.
That on Wednesdays he comes home freshly washed, even though he says he's driving straight from his route. That he leaves his phone screen-down. That sometimes he smiles at something on the display and immediately hides it when I enter the room.
The next Wednesday I left work at three thirty. I told my supervisor I had to see a doctor. I drove to Krzysztof's transport company and waited in the parking lot across the street, in the car, with the engine off. At four forty-five he drove out in his van.
I followed him. He drove calmly, confidently, as if he knew the route by heart. Not toward any clinic. He turned into the Czuby estate, parked in front of a building I'd never seen before. He entered the stairwell with his own key. With his own key.
I sat in the car for forty minutes. My hands were shaking so much I couldn't unlock my phone. Finally I managed. I called him. He answered on the fifth ring.
“Hi, sweetheart. Still at physiotherapy, I'll be home in an hour.”
His voice calm, even warm. Twenty-eight years, and he could lie in the same tone in which he said “I love you.”
“Krzysiek, I'm downstairs. In front of the building. Come out.”
Silence. A long, thick silence in which I could hear my entire life so far falling apart. Then quick breathing, shuffling, a muffled: “I'll be right down.”
He came out after ten minutes. Alone. His hair was wet and his jacket unzipped, even though the evening was warm. He stood before me on the sidewalk and stared at the ground like a boy caught cheating.
“Jola, it's not what you think,” he began.
“Krzysiek, you have a key to a strange woman's apartment. You've been there every Wednesday for eight months. What is this, if not what I think?”
He was silent.
