There’s one interesting study from several years ago, involving 134 couples whose marriages were in serious distress. Two-thirds of the couples showed significant improvement following a year of therapy. Five years later, one-fourth of the couples had divorced, while one-third reported being happy together. The remaining couples were still together, though not necessarily happy. The deciding factor seemed to be whether both spouses really wanted to improve their marriage.
60
That evening, I text Alice about dinner. I didn’t really eat anything at Barbara’s Fishtrap, and I’m famished. Twenty minutes later, she responds, Eat without me. I’ll be late.
Usually, that means she’ll be home around midnight, so I hunker down in my office to take care of paperwork. Ian finishes with his last patient at eight, and I am left alone in the quiet office.
Sometime around eleven, I head out. The house is dark and cold. I turn on the heater and wait for the whoosh of air pushing through the old pipes, but nothing happens. I don’t have the energy to start a fire or get something in the oven to warm the place up. The issue with Alice feels like a black cloud over me, and the Stantons’ divorce makes it worse. I don’t even want to think about The Pact. Certainly, there is trouble ahead. But at the moment, I don’t have the energy to formulate a plan or even consider the next step.
I sprawl on the couch, exhausted. From the back bedroom, I can hear three bell tones—email arriving on Alice’s iPad. Strangely, it doesn’t make me worry about Eric the bass player. Why did I even look at that previous email? It all seems so stupid and insecure.
Still, I have to admit that it irritates me—Alice is treating me badly for a meeting I had with an old girlfriend, and yet at the same time her iPad is probably pinging with multiple emails from her old boyfriend. Of course, the jealous mind rarely interprets one’s own actions in the same light as the actions of others.
I think about the Stantons and our nine meetings together. Therapy is unlike other human interactions, the calculations entirely different. In nine hours of serious, direct, unwavering discussion, you get to know a person deeply. I rarely heed my training to stay disconnected, simply an observer. No, with the ones I truly have hope for, I spend many hours thinking about how I can help them get to the place they need to be.
I think back on the sessions: What did I say, and what could I have said differently? Unfortunately, I remember it all, and so I’m able to critique my sentences, edit and revise them. Now that it’s too late for the Stantons, I know what I should have said, the questions I should have asked.
When I went into therapy, I didn’t realize what I was getting into. I wanted to help people. I only saw the upside of the job. I would take people at a point of trouble in their lives, and I would help them move incrementally toward a position of greater happiness. It seemed simple. What I didn’t realize is that victories in therapy come slowly. They are spread out over many sessions—often many months, even years—and they are shrouded in various disguises. The defeats, on the other hand, come suddenly, without ambiguity and often without warning.
I don’t consider the Wallings’ divorce to be a defeat. They were already there when I first met them; they simply didn’t recognize it. More important, divorce was the best choice for them. The Pact would disagree, but I know one thing for certain: Some people are not meant to be married. The Stantons, though, that’s a true defeat.
I’ve dozed off when I hear the garage door open. I check my phone: 12:47. I get up and brush my teeth so I can greet Alice with a kiss, if she’ll have one, but she stays in her car for a long time, listening to music, something loud with a bass beat. I can hear and feel it through the floor. Finally, she comes softly up the back stairs and into the kitchen. I can’t tell if she is still angry, or merely tired. She glances at me, but doesn’t really seem to see me. “I need some sleep,” she says, heading for our bedroom. And that’s it. I turn on the dishwasher, check the dead bolt on the front door, and turn out the lights.
In our room, Alice has already fallen asleep. I crawl into bed beside her. She is turned away from me, toward the window. I want to hold her, but I don’t reach out. Still, I can feel the heat emanating from her body, and it fills me with longing. After everything that happened at Fernley, I want to be in my home, in my bed, with my wife. But what happened there has changed things between us. Or if I’m honest, it’s not only what happened at Fernley. It’s everything that led up to Fernley.
I stare at her back, willing her to wake up, but she doesn’t.
So I’ll just go ahead and say it: I feel like a failure. It’s a rotten feeling. This is the first time in a long time that issues have mounted and the solutions haven’t become apparent to me at the start. I’m caught off guard by my own inability to reason through the difficulties. Predictability is the consolation prize that comes with getting older. The older you get, the more experience you accumulate, the easier it becomes to know instantly, in so many different situations, what the future will hold. In my teens, everything was new and vibrant and mysterious, and I found myself constantly surprised. And then I reached the age where surprises became more rare. And though life is perhaps less exciting when you can predict what will happen next, I somehow like it better that way.
Now all that certainty has vanished.
61
It’s a Wednesday, so I don’t go home for lunch. I pretend that I’m too busy with work, preparing for my one-on-one with Dylan, the high school freshman with depression. The reality, of course, is that I don’t want to be at home when the messenger shows up. I don’t want to have that awkward conversation while my eyes see the dreaded envelope. I don’t want to sign the delivery slip, I don’t want to be responsible for deciding the way forward. Most of all, I don’t want to face the troubles ahead. I realize it’s immature, but I just can’t do it today.
The sit-down with Dylan goes poorly, and it worries me. Are there no clear answers for Dylan right now, or is it me? Still, trying to break this spell, I leave at a normal time, and I pick up some fresh greens and chicken on the way home. Other therapists laugh at the power-of-positive-thinking movement from the 1970s, but I’m not so quick to dismiss its effectiveness. Optimistic people are happier than pessimistic or cynical people—dumb but true, even if sometimes you’re only faking it.
At home, I’m relieved to discover there’s nothing from the messenger. I dive into the comforting routine of making dinner. I’m listening for Alice’s car, but I’m also keeping an eye on the phone. From the bedroom, I hear the ping of email on the iPad. At seven thirty-five, just when the chicken is out of the oven, the bread is sliced and on the table, and the wine bottle is open, I get a text from Alice.
Working late, eat without me.
I wait up. She doesn’t show. It’s after one in the morning when I finally go to bed. It’s after two when she quietly slides in next to me. Her body, in her thin T-shirt and underwear, is so warm and nice. When I roll over and put an arm around her, she stiffens. At six, when I awake, she is gone.
I’ll come right out and say it. I’m terrified that I’m losing my wife.
At the office, I brace myself for a long day. Three couples in the morning, and the Thursday group of teenagers in the afternoon. The teenagers are combative. Like animals on the savanna, they sense weakness instantly and rarely have qualms about moving in for a quick attack.
The session with the Reeds, Eugene and Judy, at nine, goes surprisingly well. At eleven, the Fiorinas arrive. Brian and Nora are my youngest clients, thirty-one and twenty-nine. Usually, marriage counseling is the wife’s idea, but not in this case. They’ve been married for just nineteen months, and the cracks have already begun to appear. Brian got my number from an old client he plays tennis with. Nora was resistant at first but agreed to do it as a favor to her husband. In our first session, they told me their story: They met online and married quickly. Nora is from Singapore and had immigration problems, and if they hadn’t gotten married, she would have had to r
eturn home. They’re both in tech, although when we met, Nora was still looking for a new job after losing her H-1B visa. Her troubles with finding a job have wreaked havoc on her confidence, and her lack of confidence seems to be eroding their marriage.
This morning, Nora is in a feisty mood. I can tell they had a fight in the car outside my office or on the ride over. Brian looks bone-tired. “I’m not sure why we’re doing this,” Nora begins, plopping down in the big chair.
Brian sits on the couch, arms folded, leaning into the corner, clearly not open to venturing a response. Nora is ramrod straight, her hair pulled back too tight.
“Why are you here?” I ask quietly.
Nora looks frustrated. “I guess because it was scheduled on my calendar.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Brian rolls his eyes.
And then it’s quiet for a minute. A minute can feel like a long time, but sometimes that’s what a session needs. Like a run on the beach, sometimes in a therapy session a minute of silence serves as a release valve—tension slowly leaking out, anxiety working its way to the top before evaporating.
“Do you see value in marriage?” I ask. “Do you want to be married?”
Nora glances at her husband. Brian rustles to life. His expression tells me he’s surprised by my question, and not necessarily happy.
“I feel,” Nora says, measuring her words, staring only at me, “that being alone might be easier. No responsibility, do what I want, eat what I want, go where I want, no questions, no need for answers. Simple.”
“Yes, that would be simple,” I agree. I leave a little more silence. “But is simple always best?”
“Of course,” she says without thinking. And then she glares at me, as if she’s playing a game of checkers and has just been kinged.
“There’s a song I like,” I say, “by Mariachi El Bronx. I was listening to it this morning. The chorus is about how everyone wants to be alone, until they find themselves alone.” I quickly pull up the song on my iPod and play it; the soft melody changes the mood in the room.
Nora seems to be contemplating the lyrics.
“Simple is easy,” I say. “I’ll give you that. No trouble. No complications. But you know what? Humans are complex. Yes, we like simple, we like easy, we don’t like problems. It’s relaxing to live a simple life, without complicated relationships. I’m drawn to it myself. Sometimes I just want to be alone, at home, on the couch, eating cereal, watching television.”
Brian is leaning forward now. We’ve been meeting for five weeks, and I’ve probably spoken more words today than in all of their previous sessions combined.
“But you know what?” I say to Nora. “Sometimes I need complicated, I need complex. It’s interesting. It challenges me. Easy rarely achieves anything grand, and sometimes I want something grand.”
Nora appears to be softening. Her shoulders have relaxed. Her expression has gone from angry to neutral.
“Do you like Brian?” I ask her.
“Yes.”
“Does he treat you well?”
“Of course he does.”
“Are you attracted to him?”
Nora smiles for the first time. “Yes.”
“What’s not to love?” Brian says, patting his overgrown stomach, and they both laugh.
And that’s when I know they’ll be okay.
62
Another full day goes by without Alice calling, emailing, or texting. We’ve reached that dreaded marital stage that usually doesn’t come until years after the wedding. We’re living like roommates, not lovers. Sure, we share a bed, but we’re never awake at the same time.
It’s already dark when I pick up my phone and text, Dinner?
Will be late.
You have to eat.
I have Wheat Thins.
Can I bring you something?
Long pause. No response. I’ll be out front at nine, I text.
Longer pause. OK.
I pack sandwiches, chips, drinks, and brownies in an insulated bag. I arrive early, so I pull into the loading zone beside Alice’s office building and just sit in the dark, listening to the radio. KMOO is doing the album caravan, and tonight it’s Blood on the Tracks. Of course. It’s one of the greatest albums of all time, yet I wish they’d chosen something else. Something happier. Marriage is difficult. Dylan understood that.
As the opening bars of “Simple Twist of Fate” come on the radio, Alice opens the passenger door and slides into the front seat.
“Blood on the Tracks?” She laughs. “How apropos.”
I hand her a sandwich and a bag of SunChips. I give her the choice of Peroni or Diet Coke, and she takes the latter. She digs into her food like a small wild animal. We don’t speak, just eat, listening to the music.
“I would’ve preferred Planet Waves,” I say.
“Of course you would.” Then she sings a few lines from “Wedding Song.” Her voice, even when she’s angry with me, is so pure and pleasing. But then she transitions from the brilliant, happy “Wedding Song” into singing along with Dylan, who’s now moved on to “Idiot Wind.”
She looks at me. So much in a look.
She finishes her sandwich, balls up the used paper, and stuffs it into the bag. “Vadim has been working for me nonstop for the past three days.”
“I’m not surprised. Vadim has a crush on you.”
“I know. But listen, he’s been working for me, on a personal research project.”
“Shit, Alice. You didn’t tell Vadim what’s going on with The Pact, did you?” I can almost feel my blood pressure rising. Dylan is singing about gravity pulling us down.
“Of course not. I just asked him about Eli and Elaine. Here’s the thing, Jake. He’s checked every major database, public records, LexisNexis, Pacer, Google, the news, everything. He’s called friends, the best hackers, and you know what he found? Nothing. There is no missing couple named Eli and Elaine. There have been no marriages between anyone with those names over the past five years. Not in San Francisco, not in California. There aren’t any couples with those names who’ve lived in the Bay Area during that time either. There was no disappearance at Stinson Beach. Eli and Elaine don’t exist.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” I’m struggling to process what she’s telling me. Why would JoAnne make that stuff up?
“There’s more. Dave’s first wife died after a nasty battle with cancer. At Stanford, with Dave standing by her side. Sad, not mysterious. You told me that his current wife, Kerri, had been widowed under mysterious circumstances. But her first husband, Alex, died of liver disease. At Mills-Peninsula Hospital in Burlingame. Also sad, but certainly not mysterious. I think your pasty ex-girlfriend is full of shit.”
I think about what she’s telling me. Dylan is still singing, his pointed words about love gone wrong filling the car, and it’s not helping things.
“Damn it. Why would she lie?”
“Maybe she just wanted to get close to you. Maybe it was some fucked-up kind of test. Maybe she’s working for The Pact. Or maybe—ever consider this, Jake?—she’s completely fucking off her rocker.”
I replay all of my encounters with JoAnne, trying to recall some tell, some clue, that she was making it up.
“Maybe Neil is behind it,” I reason. “Maybe he told her lies to keep her in line or something.”
Alice leans back against the door. It’s almost as if she wants to get as far away from me as possible. “You just can’t let go, can you, Jake? You’re convinced that JoAnne is some quivering victim in need of your help.”
“Vadim could be wrong.”
“Vadim knows his stuff. He worked for three straight days. If he says Eli and Elaine don’t exist, they don’t exist.”
A terrifying thought occurs to me. “What if Vadim is in on it, Alice?”
“Seriously?”
“Okay, you’re right. Shit. I just don’t get it.”
“Maybe The Pact isn’t killing
people. And more important, maybe it isn’t really The Pact you’re so scared of.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“I mean exactly what I said, Jake.” The tension crackles just beneath Alice’s words. She’s still so angry. “Is it possible you’re really just afraid of being married to me?”
“Alice, our marriage was my idea.”
“Was it?”
For a second, I’m stunned. Immediately, I wonder what the story of our marriage would sound like if she were telling it.
“You may have been the one to pop the question, Jake, but I’ve been the one carrying the heavy load. Every time you fight The Pact, to me it sounds like you’re trying to get out of this marriage. Everything you’ve done, every little clandestine conversation with JoAnne—it sounds like you’re having second thoughts, like you want your old life back, like you want to be free. And then you tell me this insane story about her naked in some shrinking cage.”
“Are you accusing me of making it up?”
“No. Crazy as it sounds, I believe you found her in a glass cage. I think that The Pact is capable of all sorts of minor monstrosities. But I’m not so sure that the participants aren’t willing. I’ve been to Fernley, remember? And it was bad, I’ll grant that. Awful, really. But I put up with it because I wanted to be a better wife, and I genuinely believed they could help me do that.”
“They threatened your career!” I shout. “They threatened mine!”
“Maybe those threats were real. Maybe they weren’t. Either way, they’re not murdering couples at the beach. They’re not crushing the regional director’s wife between walls of glass. I think what you’re committing is a Crime of Interpretation.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” And I’m suddenly in free fall. I feel as if I don’t know my wife. Because those words she just used, that phrase—a Crime of Interpretation—isn’t that straight out of The Manual?
The Marriage Pact Page 25
