Dani Shapiro

Was I going crazy?

I decided to hire a detective to get to the bottom of it.

By this time, my parents knew all about me and Lenny in theory, but it wasn't something we could talk about.

When I think back to my younger self rifling through the New York City yellow pages in search of a private investigator, I feel like I'm watching a movie about someone else, a girl so clueless she really didn't know that her desire to hire a detective was all the answer she needed.

I chose a detective agency based on nothing more than its good address in the East 60s, a neighborhood filled with private schools and shrinks.

This isn't what you think, I told the detective.

I'm in a relationship with a married man and I want you to find out if my boyfriend is cheating on me with his wife.

At this, his eyebrows shot up.

Come again?

He claims his wife is in a mental hospital.

He told me he hasn't been with her in years.

And you think he might be lying, said the investigator.

Did I see the laughter behind his eyes, or is my memory supplying it now?

Because I simply cannot imagine a middle-aged man listening to an earnest, overdressed 22-year-old girl tell him that she thinks her boyfriend might still be sleeping with his wife.

Yes, I said.

Days later, I got the proof about Lenny's lies.

In tears, I called my mother.

Oh, darling, I'm so sorry.

Is there anything I can do?

I don't think so.