by Robyn Carr
“The lawyer place?” she asked sarcastically.
“The father place. The abandoned spouse place.”
“You abandoned me for her!”
“No,” he said calmly. “Not for one hour of one day. What I did was wrong, but let’s stay clear on what I didn’t do.”
“And just what didn’t you do?”
He stared at her hard, thinking. He shook his head. “I’m not even going to bother. You already know.”
They sat in stony silence.
“I’m going for a walk,” Gerri said.
* * *
Gerri walked a hard half hour, ending up in the same park where her son had been nabbed for smoking pot. She sat on the ground and leaned against a tree trunk. And just what didn’t you do, Phil? The thought kept reverberating in her mind. It’s why she’d had no idea there was another woman—Phil never let his commitments slip. And not just his obligations to the kids, but also to her. He never really put anyone ahead of her. So that’s what he wanted from her—for her to see the marriage as a whole entity with one small imperfection.
But, what Gerri couldn’t understand, what filled her with anger, was the idea that the marriage could be so strong and balanced yet he would still need another woman. In making a list of pros and cons, it wasn’t difficult to admit, even through red-hot rage, that Phil was a good father. Not just good, but excellent. And he’d been a committed partner, through the worst crap. He’d been a rock through death, disaster and at least a couple of years of Gerri’s hot-flashing, sweating and mood swings that jolted her unpredictably. As a provider, no question—he not only put in long hours and made a good living, but he pursued an honorable task, working on the side of justice. Given what she did for a living, that meant a great deal.
And wasn’t she all those things, too? Yet she had never succumbed to the temptation to stray. She felt tears on her cheeks and at the same time found herself shaking her head in soundless laughter. Oh, she’d flirted. She’d even found the occasional man tempting. But she’d never run into a man who had more to offer than Phil, who was everything to her. Everything. Handsome, strong, brilliant, funny, devoted. But she was not everything to him.
“Bad morning?”
Gerri looked up to see BJ standing over her. She was wearing her running clothes, panting, drenched in sweat. Gerri wiped off her cheeks. “Marital problems suck.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” BJ said. She sat down on the ground in front of Gerri, folding up her legs under her. “Need a shoulder to cry on?”
“Nah, not really. It’s so typical I’m going to be reading about it in Good Housekeeping in a few months.”
“That right?”
“He’s at the house right now,” Gerri said. “I called him— My teenagers went nuts last night, everyone got in trouble and I was in over my head. So he came. Stayed. Slept on the sofa. And this morning we were having a conversation about how to work together as parents even though we’re not living in the same house and it started, the button pushing.” She shrugged. “That’s how it works. I’ve been through it a million times with friends and clients. I said something about the potential for our divorce and he warned me he wouldn’t go along with that quietly. I felt threatened, he felt backed into a corner, etcetera.” She sniffed and wiped her nose. “He had an affair,” she said.
“Ouch,” was BJ’s singular comment.
“A long time ago, but still...”
“Still ouch.”
“Yeah. The son of a bitch. I might’ve never known and we’d have gone on forever, just like we were. Until it happened again.”
“So you’re glad you know,” BJ said.
“No. I’m not. I wish I didn’t know. I’m starting to feel like I don’t have the right to be this mad. I wish I could catch him, that’s what I wish. In our bed, that’s what I’d like. With the children watching. Something so egregious no one would even question my feelings, which are still so hot I can’t get a rational thought through.” She sniffed. “Even my best friend asked me if I couldn’t get over it, since it was a long time ago. Get over it? If I let myself think about it, I want to kill him.”
They sat for a quiet moment, then BJ said, “Instincts are the hidden genius. Maybe the worst thing you can do is question what you feel.” Gerri’s head came up and she looked at her. “Okay, the second worst,” BJ said, smiling.
Gerri was suddenly aware that when BJ smiled, a slightly crooked smile, she was a pretty woman. “Jesus, BJ, this almost qualifies as reaching out.”
“Maybe I’m coming out of my shell,” she said. “Anyway, you were nice to me. It doesn’t hurt to be nice back.”
“It’s appreciated,” Gerri said. “First walking with us, now this.”
“It got easier when I realized you guys don’t have perfect lives.”
“Right now we don’t even have manageable lives. I’m teetering on the edge, Andy’s getting her second divorce and Sonja’s half crackers.” Gerri looked around the park. “Every year, right before school starts, we have a big neighborhood party here. It’s an amazing party—celebrating getting our freedom back after a summer of having kids home. Well, everyone celebrates but Andy, who’s going back to school with all the little jerks. Were you here for the last one?”
“Barely. I had just moved in. I watched some of it from the house.”
“Weren’t ready to come out yet?”
“Not then, no. I was new to paradise. Not really up to being scrutinized by the elite of Mill Valley.”
Gerri laughed in spite of herself. “You live in the same neighborhood.”
“Just sort of. It’s not my house. I don’t even rent it as a matter of fact. A friend of my brother’s is letting us house-sit for a while till I get on my feet. I’m here because my brother’s business is close and he could give me work.”
“No insurance? With your husband’s death?”
“’Fraid not,” she said. “We’re very lucky, so don’t get the idea I’m complaining. It’s an awfully nice house to just let someone use. But then, they have a lot to spare, I gather. I’m a little out of place here. I should be living much smaller, cheaper.”
“Probably we all should,” Gerri said.
“Oh, I think you’re where you’re supposed to be. I’m from a pretty poor section of Fresno, barely scraping by. But you and the girls? A district attorney’s wife, school principal and the wife of a successful financial planner? I think you fit pretty good.”
“Who told you all that?” Gerri asked.
BJ shrugged. “I asked the owners about the neighbors before I moved in.”
“But you asked me what I did for a living.”
“Yeah, I know. Making conversation. You and your husband...I mean, you and the son of a bitch are neighborhood legends. High cotton.” She grinned her crooked grin.
“Huh,” Gerri said, astonished. “And I don’t even know your last name.”
“Smith,” she said. “Honest to God, Barbara Jean Smith and if you ever call me Barbara Jean, we’re all done talking.”
Gerri laughed. “Well, how do you do,” she said. “Big sneak.”
BJ pulled herself to her feet. “I’m going to go shower, run the kids over to my brother’s for a while and break into Sonja’s house. I stopped by there yesterday. Since it wasn’t a walking day for you and she’s still in a fog, I tried to roust her out. She wouldn’t come out, she’s living in a cave. But that house—whew. It’s starting to actually smell bad.”
Gerri stood. “Seriously? It seemed okay on Friday when we got her up. I mean, it’s a mess, but...”
“Yeah, but it’s turning.” BJ made a face. “I have a lot to pay forward—I’m going to see if I can help her clean up.”
“When will you be over there? Maybe I’ll come over, too.”
“Don’t sweat it,” BJ said. “You have teenagers going nuts and a son of a bitch to threaten and nag. I can handle it.”
“When?” Gerri asked with a laugh.
“Ten
or so, I guess. But really—”
“I’ll stick the SOB with the kids. He needs to be punished.”
“Right.” BJ laughed.
* * *
Gerri got to Sonja’s house ahead of BJ. “What are you doing?” Gerri asked when Sonja answered the door.
“Nothing,” Sonja shrugged, running a hand through her tangled hair.
“You must be doing something.”
“Watching the shopping channel, that’s all.”
“The shopping channel? You? Well, I’m meeting BJ here,” Gerri said. “We’re going to help you straighten up the house. You’ve been too groggy to get to it, I guess.”
“I don’t want you to straighten up the house,” Sonja said. “I don’t want anyone to do anything.”
“Come on, don’t be like that. You’ve been there for me a hundred times.”
“This is different,” Sonja said.
“Yeah—it’s you this time.” Gerri brushed past her and walked into the house. For the second time she was a little embarrassed that BJ had been more observant, caught that something all wrong was taking place before Gerri. She wrinkled her nose. The house was starting to take on an odor. Or Sonja was. “I guess I’ve been a little caught up in my own drama,” Gerri muttered. “Are you just so tired, Sonja? It doesn’t look like you’ve cleaned up around here in a while. Or yourself, for that matter.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sonja said with a shrug, turning away and going to the family room sofa. She flopped down, staring at the TV.
Gerri observed the squalor all around—discarded socks, kicked off tennis shoes, scrunched up tissues, dirty coffee cups, a couple of plates, glasses, an apple core in a bowl with what looked like little spit out bites, all rotten. She walked over to the table and picked up the remote, turned off the TV.
“Hey!” Sonja said.
“Go take a shower,” Gerri said firmly. “See if you can find something clean to wear. Do something with your hair.”
“Really, I don’t feel like it.”
“I know. I can tell. Do it, anyway.”
“I don’t—”
“Sonja, I’m tired of looking at you all a wreck, falling apart. If you don’t do as I say, I’m going to get in the shower with you and scrub you up.” Gerri shook her head. “It’s not like you to go to pieces like this. Jeez, you’re in worse shape than I am and I had to call my cheating husband home to help with the drunk and stoned teenagers. Come on, we’re going to get you straightened out. Now cooperate. What George did was pretty crappy, but really—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sonja said. “I have to talk about it three times a week with that counselor and I refuse to talk about it anymore.”
“Then go take a shower.”
Without another word, Sonja turned and headed for her bathroom. Gerri went to the kitchen and surveyed the mess. Sheesh, it looked as if a plate hadn’t been washed, a surface cleared or floor swept since George departed. There was rotten fruit in a bowl surrounded by tiny flies, the loaf of bread on the counter was green, the tissue box empty and surrounded by used tissues, balled up. She heard the shower running and went to open the blinds and windows in the front room to air the place out. She wiped a hand along the fireplace mantel and looked at the dust on her fingers. Then she noticed there were a couple of imprints of dust-free spots. A round spot on the side table, a square spot on the mantel, an oval shape on another accent table. Nothing had been touched in the house, nothing cleaned or tidied, yet things had been moved?
Looking around carefully she saw little tufts of hair on the sofa, the floor, the coffee table. Holy Jesus. She picked one up and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. Sonja’s hair. What the hell?
She went through the kitchen to the garage. Everything looked to be in order. The work bench was tidy, Sonja’s car was immaculate, the lawn mower and yard tools stored neatly in the corner. And there were a few boxes, taped and stacked. There was nothing written on them and Gerri knew Sonja was an obsessive labeler. She pulled back the tape and opened the top box. “Oh. Oh,” she said. She moved it off the stack and opened another. “Oh, God,” she said. She didn’t bother with the third and fourth.
When she got back to the kitchen, she noticed the answering machine light was blinking. She pressed Play. “You have fifty-seven new messages,” the mechanical voice said. Gerri’s lips silently repeated the number, stunned. The first message played. “Sonja, we missed you at your meditation class and the center’s director said you hadn’t called in. Let us know if you’re going to have class on Friday...”
The second message was similar. “Sonja, hi, Patty James—Um, have you stopped teaching yoga on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings? No one got a message. Are you out of town? Call me.”
Gerri listened to a few more and then heard: “Sonja, it’s Bev Sorenson—I was just wondering how long you’re going to be on leave of absence, I want to sign up for your next class.” Gerri stopped the machine. Sonja wasn’t taking or returning calls; she’d dropped out. Fifty-seven messages? Yikes.
She phoned Andy. “I need you at Sonja’s,” she said.
“Everything all right?”
“No,” Gerri said. “Can you come?”
“Be right there.”
Gerri opened the cupboard just above the phone. There, neatly taped to the inside of the door was a list of phone numbers, beginning with George’s cell phone number. “Good girl, Sonja,” Gerri said.
George answered on the third ring. “Hi, it’s Gerri Gilbert. I’m at your house—Sonja’s house. Have you been here since you left?”
“Sure. I pick her up for her counseling appointments, why?”
“Didn’t you notice what’s going on here? What’s happening to her?”
“Yeah, I noticed. She’s very depressed. The doctor said—”
“George, did you look around the house? Did you notice her?”
“I noticed Sonja, yes, but I just waited inside the door for her to get her purse. I just can’t stand hanging around there. And, there didn’t seem to be anything I could do except make sure she attended counseling sessions. I hoped in time—”
“George,” she said, cutting him off, exasperated. “She hasn’t cleaned a thing since you left, including herself. She hasn’t washed a dish, done a load of laundry, changed the sheets or showered. She packed up all her fountains, candles, chimes, books, relaxation DVDs and CDs—everything that defines her. She’s filthy, sitting in front of the shopping channel, hardly eating. I’ve only taken a glance, but I think there’s nothing but rotten food in the house. And who knows if she’s sleeping too little or too much. She’s sick, George. Really sick.”
“Hello?” she heard Andy call from the front door.
“She sees the counselor three times a week and she’s on medication,” George said.
“Well, maybe it isn’t working, and the counselor obviously hasn’t picked up on these signals. We’ve been coming over here weekday mornings to get her walking a little bit—we get her up and dressed and out the door, but I don’t see any evidence that she’s brushing her teeth, combing her hair or anything. Is there a psychiatrist on her case?”
George gave her the name and phone number. Andy stood in the kitchen, watching Gerri on the phone. By the time Gerri had written down the psychiatrist’s details, BJ was standing next to Andy, both opposite Gerri across the breakfast bar. “All right, George, thanks,” she said. Then, “Sure, I’ll let you know.”
Gerri hung up and looked at the other two women. “Okay, we’ve got a problem. Sonja’s in bad shape. She’s dangerously depressed, filthy, lethargic and she got rid of all her woo-woo stuff. I’m calling her doctor and then I’m taking her to the hospital. She can’t be left alone in this condition. She might be suicidal.”
“Well, holy shit,” Andy said. “You sure?”
“Of course not, but I’m not going to take any chances or one of these mornings we’re going to come over here to get her out of bed and s
he’s not going to wake up.” She swallowed and pinched her eyes closed. “She’s pulling out her hair,” she said softly. She dialed a phone number, got a recording and scribbled down the emergency number.
“What should we do?” BJ asked.
Gerri whirled around, picked up a couple of pill bottles from the windowsill over the kitchen sink. “Count these,” she said, handing them each a bottle.
“You don’t think if we get her cleaned up, she’ll feel better?” Andy asked.
“It’s not that simple,” Gerri said. “It’s medical. She’s way around the bend.”
When she got the emergency answering service for the doctor, she knew exactly what to say for the quickest possible response. “Hi, I’m Gerry Gilbert, calling about Sonja Johanson. I’m a clinical psychologist and I’m her neighbor and friend. I’m here at her house and I believe she may be suicidal. I need to talk to the doctor immediately. It’s an emergency.”
After she hung up, she faced Andy and BJ. BJ held the bottle toward Gerri and said, “Fifty-eight of sixty.”
“Sixty,” Andy said, holding out her bottle. “She isn’t taking them. What made her so groggy and sleepy?”
“Depression. Black, dangerous depression. Look, I’m sorry to leave you two with the mess—just see if you can throw out the garbage, maybe wash a load or two, get it presentable and make the smell go away.” The phone rang and she picked it up, looking at the caller ID. “I like that—he’s right on it.”
It wasn’t a he—Dr. Sydney Kalay was a woman. Gerri explained who she was and what she’d found and Dr. Kalay told Gerri to bring Sonja to the mental health clinic at the hospital as soon as she could get her ready. When she hung up, Andy and BJ were still standing by, waiting. “I’m taking her in. Oh, God,” she said, running her hand through her short, cropped hair. “Oh, man, I hope she doesn’t give me any trouble.”
“You want help?” BJ asked.
“No, I want to do this alone. I’ve done it before, but never for a good friend. Jesus, how did I not notice? Is it because I’m such a miserable wreck at six in the morning? Crap!” She started toward the master bedroom, then she turned. “BJ, once again, if you hadn’t said something, this could have been so much worse!”
