OF
CONFUSION
I woke up early with Nicole still there, fast asleep. I felt pretty bad
about the whole thing. I was dating Paula, and I hadn't wanted this
to happen, and suddenly I felt like one of those fools that tries to
make all sorts of phony excuses for screwing up. I woke Nicole and
told her she had to leave before the kids got up—I didn't want them
to see her there, and to tell Paula about it—then I walked her
downstairs and let her out. I felt lousy. I was cheating on my girl-
friend with my exwife. How weird was that?
At noon, the kids and I left for the airport and went to Vegas
and had a wonderful weekend with Paula. I didn't tell her about
Nicole. If that makes me a coward, and I guess it does, then I'm a
coward. I justified it like a million guys justify these things: It was a
mistake. It would never happen again.
When I got back to L.A., Nicole and I got into what I often
think of as our Period of Confusion. This was early April, a month
before Mother's Day, more than a year before the murders, and
Nicole pretty much began stalking me. She would drive by the
house late at night, and if Paula's truck wasn't out front she'd ring
the bell. Like a fool, I would let her in. That thing that wasn't sup-
posed to happen again was happening again—two and three times
a week. It was messing me up. All the old feelings were coming
back, and I kept fighting them, but Nicole was relentless about get-
ting me back. Still, whenever she broached the subject, I would cut
her off. “We're not getting back,” I said. “We're just doing this.”
“Why are we doing this if you don't have feelings for me?”
“I never said I didn't have feelings for you. I said we weren't
getting back.”
“But—”
“Listen to me: I don't want to talk about it. This is what we're
doing and it's all we're doing. There's no future in it.”
Sometimes, after we made love, we'd lie there side by side,
and Nicole would talk about her therapy. Things were going well,
she said, and she was learning a great deal about herself. She got
into all sorts of psychobabble about her childhood, and “unfin-
ished business,” and about the anger inside her. I listened because
she wanted me to listen, and some of it seemed to make sense, but
at the end of the day it really wasn't an issue for me. If she believed
she was getting better, that was a good thing—and she certainly
seemed to believe.
“ My therapist says I like o be angr y,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“She says I look for trouble because it makes me feel alive,”
she explained. “We've been trying to figure out where this comes
from, so we've been talking a lot about my childhood.”
“So what have you figured out?”
“Not a lot yet,” Nicole said. “This anger thing is mostly
unconscious.”
It might have been unconscious, but I'd seen plenty of it over
the years—especially in the period leading up to the split. Nicole
could mix it up with anyone—a bouncer at a club, some asshole at
the gym, a close friend—over absolutely nothing. Nicole was
always looking to make enemies, and she had finally turned me, the
person she was closest to, into Enemy Number One. I was glad she
was talking about this stuff with her therapist. I remember thinking
that it would have been nice if she'd figured some of this shit out
before the marriage fell apart. I didn't say so, though. Instead, I
said, “That's good. I'm glad you found a therapist you like.”
During this time, this Period of Confusion, we started spending
a little more time with the kids, especially when Paula was out of
town, which was pretty often. It was actually kind of pleasant, maybe
too pleasant, and once again Nicole began to drop hints about getting
back together. I didn't understand it. She'd gone out to “find herself,”
as she put it, and all she'd found is that she wanted me back.
I called her mother one day and asked her what was going on.
“I'm really confused,” I said.
“I'm not,” she said. “I never thought
CONFUSION
I woke up early with Nicole still there, fast asleep. I felt pretty bad
about the whole thing. I was dating Paula, and I hadn't wanted this
to happen, and suddenly I felt like one of those fools that tries to
make all sorts of phony excuses for screwing up. I woke Nicole and
told her she had to leave before the kids got up—I didn't want them
to see her there, and to tell Paula about it—then I walked her
downstairs and let her out. I felt lousy. I was cheating on my girl-
friend with my exwife. How weird was that?
At noon, the kids and I left for the airport and went to Vegas
and had a wonderful weekend with Paula. I didn't tell her about
Nicole. If that makes me a coward, and I guess it does, then I'm a
coward. I justified it like a million guys justify these things: It was a
mistake. It would never happen again.
When I got back to L.A., Nicole and I got into what I often
think of as our Period of Confusion. This was early April, a month
before Mother's Day, more than a year before the murders, and
Nicole pretty much began stalking me. She would drive by the
house late at night, and if Paula's truck wasn't out front she'd ring
the bell. Like a fool, I would let her in. That thing that wasn't sup-
posed to happen again was happening again—two and three times
a week. It was messing me up. All the old feelings were coming
back, and I kept fighting them, but Nicole was relentless about get-
ting me back. Still, whenever she broached the subject, I would cut
her off. “We're not getting back,” I said. “We're just doing this.”
“Why are we doing this if you don't have feelings for me?”
“I never said I didn't have feelings for you. I said we weren't
getting back.”
“But—”
“Listen to me: I don't want to talk about it. This is what we're
doing and it's all we're doing. There's no future in it.”
Sometimes, after we made love, we'd lie there side by side,
and Nicole would talk about her therapy. Things were going well,
she said, and she was learning a great deal about herself. She got
into all sorts of psychobabble about her childhood, and “unfin-
ished business,” and about the anger inside her. I listened because
she wanted me to listen, and some of it seemed to make sense, but
at the end of the day it really wasn't an issue for me. If she believed
she was getting better, that was a good thing—and she certainly
seemed to believe.
“ My therapist says I like o be angr y,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“She says I look for trouble because it makes me feel alive,”
she explained. “We've been trying to figure out where this comes
from, so we've been talking a lot about my childhood.”
“So what have you figured out?”
“Not a lot yet,” Nicole said. “This anger thing is mostly
unconscious.”
It might have been unconscious, but I'd seen plenty of it over
the years—especially in the period leading up to the split. Nicole
could mix it up with anyone—a bouncer at a club, some asshole at
the gym, a close friend—over absolutely nothing. Nicole was
always looking to make enemies, and she had finally turned me, the
person she was closest to, into Enemy Number One. I was glad she
was talking about this stuff with her therapist. I remember thinking
that it would have been nice if she'd figured some of this shit out
before the marriage fell apart. I didn't say so, though. Instead, I
said, “That's good. I'm glad you found a therapist you like.”
During this time, this Period of Confusion, we started spending
a little more time with the kids, especially when Paula was out of
town, which was pretty often. It was actually kind of pleasant, maybe
too pleasant, and once again Nicole began to drop hints about getting
back together. I didn't understand it. She'd gone out to “find herself,”
as she put it, and all she'd found is that she wanted me back.
I called her mother one day and asked her what was going on.
“I'm really confused,” I said.
“I'm not,” she said. “I never thought
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