My Cheating Husband Gave Me HIV and Said It Was From a Blood Transfusion.

It took me three tries to get into his email. Patriots 2016. And there they were. Hundreds of them. Emails to Amber, sweet emails, romantic emails, emails planning meetups, and talking about their future together. He told her he loved her. He told her he was going to leave me. He told her she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The same things he’d said to me 12 years ago. I wanted to throw up, but I kept reading because I needed to know. I needed to know everything. There were emails about meeting at hotels, about weekends away when he’d told me he was at conferences, about gifts he’d bought her, jewelry, concert tickets, a weekend trip to the coast, all charged to a credit card I didn’t know existed. And buried in those emails about 8 months back was one that made my blood run cold. David had written to Amber, “I’m worried about that thing we talked about. I think we should both get tested just to be safe.” Her response, “Don’t freak out. It’s probably nothing, but yeah, we can get tested if it’ll make you feel better. I scrolled frantically through more emails looking for follow-up, looking for results, nothing.

They never mentioned it again, which either meant they got tested and everything was fine, or they never got tested at all, or they got tested and didn’t discuss it over email. I needed to know. I needed to know if Amber was positive, too. Because if she was, then she was the source. She was the reason I was infected, the reason my entire life had been destroyed. But if she wasn’t, if she wasn’t, then where did David get it? I sat with that question for 3 days.

barely ate, barely slept, just turned it over and over in my mind. My best friend Jessica came over, brought soup and bread from the bakery I liked. “You look terrible,” she said. “Thanks. I’m serious, Mel. When’s the last time you ate?” I couldn’t remember. She heated up the soup, made me eat, sat with me while I cried. “I just need to understand,” I said. “I need to know how this happened.

Maybe understanding won’t change anything. It’ll change everything.” And then I did something crazy. I went to Amber’s dental office. I called first, made an appointment for a cleaning under a fake name, Jenny Morrison. Paid in cash. They had an opening that same week. When I sat in that chair and Amber leaned over me with her little mirror and scraper, I looked right at her, perfect face, and I said, “Do you know David Hartley?” Her hand froze. The color drained from her cheeks. “I David Hartley, my husband. The man you’ve been sleeping with for the past year and a half.” She put her tools down, stepped back. Her voice was barely a whisper. I didn’t know he was married. I laughed.

It was bitter and sharp. Yes, you did. I swear I didn’t. He told me he was divorced. He showed me papers. Fake papers. I What? I sat up in the chair.

He’s not divorced. We’re in the middle of divorce proceedings now, but for the last year and a half, we were very much married. She started crying right there in the exam room, mascara running down her face. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know. I would never. I’m not that kind of person.” And here’s the thing. I believed her. She looked genuinely destroyed, genuinely shocked. “Did he give you HIV?” I asked. Her head snapped up. “What? Did David give you HIV?” “No, no, I’m negative. I got tested 2 months ago.” Full panel. Everything came back clean. My brain stuttered to a stop.

“You’re negative?” “Yes, I get tested every 3 months. I’m very careful about that. It’s something I’ve always done, even in relationships. But that didn’t make sense. That didn’t make any sense at all. When did you last sleep with him? 3 weeks ago. Right before. Right before he said he needed space. Said things were complicated. I haven’t heard from him since. 3 weeks ago after my diagnosis. After he knew he was positive, he’d still been sleeping with her, putting her at risk, not telling her. I stood up from that dental chair.

My legs felt like jelly. You need to get tested again. I said right away. He’s HIV positive and he gave it to me.

Amber’s face went gray. She grabbed the counter to study herself, but I’m negative. I just got tested. How is that possible? I don’t know, I said. But you need to get tested again now. And you should know. He knew. He knew he was positive and he didn’t tell you. She sank into the dental chair, the chair where I had just been sitting. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “Oh my god, I left her there.” The receptionist gave me a strange look as I walked out. I probably looked as shell shocked as I felt. I left the office in a days, got in my car, drove. None of it made sense. If Amber was negative and I’d been faithful, and the blood transfusion was clean, then where did David contract HIV? There had to be someone else.

Someone before Amber, someone he wasn’t telling me about. I went back to the credit card statements further back this time, two years, three years, looking for other patterns, other anomalies, and I found them. Three years ago, before the car accident, there were charges, different charges, different patterns. A hotel downtown, always on Wednesday nights, always the same hotel, the Riverside Inn. The charges stopped right after his accident, right after the blood transfusion theory became convenient. I called the hotel. Told them I was trying to track down information about my husband’s stays there. The woman on the phone was hesitant at first, but I played the wronged wife card hard. Told her I needed closure. Needed to understand.

She looked up the records. He was a regular, she said. Always booked under his own name. Always room 412. Was he alone? There was a pause. I can’t really say. Privacy and all that. Please, I said, I just need to know. My marriage is over. I just need to understand what happened. Another pause. Then quietly, the room was always booked for two people, but I don’t know who the other person was. I’m sorry, someone else.

There’d been someone else before Amber.

I drove to the Riverside Inn, walked into the lobby. It was nice. Not fancy, but nice. Clean. The kind of place business travelers stay. The kind of place where nobody asks questions. I approached the desk. Different woman than the one I’d spoken to on the phone.

I’m looking for information about a guest who used to stay here regularly. 3 years ago. Always on Wednesdays. Always room 412. She typed on her computer. I’m sorry. I can’t give out information about guests. I pulled out my phone.

Showed her a photo of David. This is my husband. I’m in the process of divorcing him. I’m trying to understand the extent of his affairs. She looked at the photo.

Something flickered in her eyes. I remember him, she said quietly. He was always very polite, always tipped. Do you remember who he was with? She glanced around. The lobby was empty. I shouldn’t be telling you this, please.

She bit her lip. I don’t know a name, but I remember it was always the same person. I remember because it was unusual. Most affairs, you know, they switch partners, but not this one. It was always the same person. Very consistent. Can you describe them? I only saw them from a distance a few times. I worked the front desk, not housekeeping, but I think it was a woman. Long dark hair, tall. That’s all I remember. Long dark hair, tall. Not much to go on, but it was something. I went back to the phone records way back 3 years. Looking for patterns. There was a number. It showed up regularly 3 years ago. Then it disappeared completely right around the time of David’s accident. More coordination calls, more secret meetings. I traced it. It was disconnected now, but I found an old social media account attached to it. A woman named Vanessa Chen. Her last post was from 3 years ago, moving across the country for a fresh start. New city, new life, new me. She’d moved to Seattle. I found her current profile. She was a nurse now, working in an ER. Her profile picture showed a woman with long dark hair. She was tall. Even sitting down, you could tell this was her. I sent her a message. My name is Melissa Hartley. I think you knew my husband, David, 3 years ago. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. She responded within an hour.

I’m sorry. I don’t know anyone named David Hartley. I sent her a photo of David. 5 minutes later. Oh my god. Is that Derek? Derek. He’d used a fake name. Of course he had. Yes, I typed.

That’s him. I haven’t talked to him in years. We dated for about 6 months. It ended badly. Why are you contacting me?

My hands were shaking as I typed, “Did Derek ever tell you he was HIV positive?” The three dots appeared and disappeared. Appeared and disappeared.

Finally, no, but I need to tell you something. And I don’t know if it matters now, but Dererick wasn’t who he said he was about a lot of things. What do you mean? I found out near the end of our relationship that he was married.

He’d been lying to me the whole time.

That’s why I ended it. That’s why I moved. I couldn’t deal with the betrayal with knowing I’d been the other woman.

Did you sleep with him? Yes. Are you HIV positive? No. I get tested regularly for work. I’m negative. I was tested last month. Why are you asking me this? I took a deep breath and typed out the whole story, the diagnosis, the lies, the timeline, everything. Her response came quickly. I’m so sorry. That’s horrific. I had no idea. He told me his name was Derek Morrison. He told me he was a sales consultant. He told me he traveled for work. He told me he was divorced with no kids. Everything was a lie. Do you remember him ever being sick? Any symptoms? Not really. He was always healthy, always had energy.

Although, there was one time, maybe a month before I ended things, when he said he wasn’t feeling well. Said he had the flu, but he bounced back quickly.

Vanessa, this is going to sound strange, but do you remember if Dererick ever mentioned being with anyone else? Any other partners? Not that he told me about, but honestly, who knows? He lied about everything else. He probably lied about that, too. Dead end, but something was nagging at me. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I looked at the timeline again. Vanessa had ended things with David 3 years ago. Shortly after he’d had the car accident. Then the affair with Amber had started about 18 months ago. There was a gap about a year and a half where I couldn’t account for David’s activities. I went back to the credit card statements for that gap period. There weren’t many charges.

Everything looked normal. Work expenses, gas, groceries, regular life. But there was one thing, a recurring charge. Every month, $50 to something called Wellness Health Partners. I Googled it. It was a clinic, a private medical clinic in the city. I called them. Wellness Health Partners. How can I help you? Hi, I’m trying to get information about a patient, my husband. We’re going through a divorce and I need medical records.

I’m sorry. We can’t give out patient information without proper authorization. What kind of clinic are you? We’re a private practice specializing in sexual health and wellness. Sexual health. My heart started pounding. What does that mean exactly? We provide testing, treatment, and counseling for sexually transmitted infections. We also provide prep, pep, and ongoing care for patients with HIV.

I hung up. David had been going to an HIV clinic for over a year, making monthly payments. I sat in my kitchen and I tried to make sense of it all.

David had cheated with at least two women that I knew of, probably more, but both of them were negative, which meant either they got incredibly lucky or or David had contracted HIV some other way, some way he wasn’t telling anyone about.

I called my divorce lawyer, asked if there was any way to force David to disclose his full medical history. Not unless you can prove it’s relevant to the divorce proceedings, Patricia said.

It’s relevant to my health, to my life.

He infected me. I need to know where he got it. I understand. Let me see what I can do. She sounded skeptical. Like, this was a long shot, but 2 days later, she called back. I got his medical records, everything from the past 5 years. You might want to sit down for this. I sat. Three years ago, a few months before his car accident, David went to Wellness Health Partners. That’s the clinic you mentioned. He was tested for HIV. My heart stopped. And he was positive. He tested positive 3 years ago. Melissa, before the car accident, before the blood transfusion excuse.

Before Amber, before you were infected, the room spun. He knew. He knew. And according to these records, he started anti-retroviral treatment immediately.

But then he stopped going to that clinic after about 14 months. No follow-up appointments, nothing. Why would he stop treatment? I don’t know. But here’s the other thing. That clinic specializes in a very specific demographic. What demographic? My lawyer was quiet for a moment, then men who have anonymous encounters with other men. The words hung in the air. I couldn’t breathe.

David had contracted HIV from a man, not from Amber, not from Vanessa, from a man he’d met anonymously at a clinic that specialized in that community. And he’d known. He’d known for 3 years that he was positive. And then he’d had that convenient car accident and come up with the blood transfusion story. And he’d infected me. He’d infected me knowing full well where he’d gotten it and choosing to lie. I felt like I was going to be sick. Melissa, are you still there? Yeah, I whispered. I’m here.

There’s more. According to his records, he was counseledled extensively about disclosure, about protecting partners, about treatment adherence. He signed documents acknowledging he understood the risks of stopping treatment. He signed documents saying he would disclose his status to all partners, but he didn’t. No, he didn’t. And there are notes in his file from his counselor expressing concern about his mental state, about his denial, about his refusal to tell his wife. They knew about me. They knew he was married. They encouraged him multiple times to tell you, to get you tested, to use protection until he was undetectable.

But according to the notes, he kept saying he couldn’t, that it would destroy his family. So, he just destroyed it slowly instead. I’m so sorry, Melissa. I hung up the phone and I just sat there in my kitchen in the house David and I had bought together, where we’d raised our kids, where we’d built a life, all of it based on lies.

Jessica came over that night. I’d called her crying. She brought wine and Thai food and just sat with me while I fell apart. I don’t understand, I kept saying. I don’t understand how someone does this. How they look at you every day and lie. How they hold you and lie.