by Sylvia True
She drops her purse and turns to the sinks. They have sensors, and she waves her hand, trying to get some water. Nothing comes out. Adam joins her, and with one swift motion the faucet runs.
She splashes cold water on her face, and for a second she feels better. Her face dripping, she picks up her head and gets a whiff of body odor.
Adam’s eyes look cloudy. With his hands shoved in his pockets, he emanates shame, and she finds herself feeling bad for him, awkward and embarrassed.
“So this wasn’t some sort of business meeting?” she asks, sarcastic, her voice raspy, her throat still pushing down acid.
“What?” he asks.
She covers her mouth, because she suddenly has the giggles. It’s that funereal, inappropriate laughter.
“Hannah, this isn’t funny.”
She shakes her head no, as a chuckle escapes.
“Hannah, stop,” he says.
“Sorry,” she sputters, and goes back to the sink. But again she can’t get the damn thing to work. She glances in the mirror and sees him looking at her, then her gaze drops. His belt is twisted. She holds on to the white porcelain as her knees buckle. He catches her so she doesn’t hit the ground, but not in time to stop her from throwing up all over the floor.
They stand there, together. He holds her as she looks at the mess. She pulls away from him and yanks out a wad of white paper towels. On her knees, she begins to wipe.
“Leave it,” he tells her. “Let’s get out of here.”
The paper scratches lightly on the floor. She can’t leave it. She puts the dirty paper towels in the trash, then grabs more to finish the job.
Adam tugs at her arm. “Come on. Let’s go home so we can talk.”
The word home sits like a boulder in her empty stomach. How can they live under the same roof? How will she tell her mother, her children? What will she tell them? When?
“I wish I were dead,” she says.
“Hannah, don’t say that.”
She grabs her purse and runs out of the bathroom. Adam stays a step behind.
In the parking lot, she climbs into her SUV and slams the door. Adam pounds his fist on the window. She starts the engine and backs up. There is nothing to say.
She arrives home before him. The kids are in bed. She thanks her mother, tells her everything is fine but she has a slight headache, so she’s going straight to bed.
* * *
For the next two days she throws up the way she did when she was pregnant. Adam offers to stay home, and she shakes her head violently, no.
Exactly one week after the incident, after Adam’s numerous pleas to talk, she agrees to go with him to his therapist. Hannah’s been two other times, once a few days before they married, and again when the children were toddlers.
Nancy Baron, a small gray-haired woman, with clunky earrings too big for her face, sits on her hands when she listens. For most of the first forty minutes, Hannah cries as she retells last week’s event.
“It sounds excruciating,” Nancy says. “If you decide to stay in this marriage, Adam has a lot of work to do.”
If she wants to stay? She should leave. But she can’t. Not yet. She feels weak and pathetic. Her hands cover her face.
“You need support,” Nancy says. “A friend of mine has a doctoral student who is starting a group for spouses of sex addicts. I think you may find it very helpful.”
Hannah shakes her head no, but Nancy hands over a card anyway.
Hannah slips the card in her purse. The thought of telling random women about Adam’s supposed addiction feels intolerable.
Bridget
The hangers clack as Bridget browses through the post–Valentine’s Day sale racks of corsets and garters at Victoria’s Secret. It’s not likely that anyone she knows will be here, but still it would be totally fucking embarrassing.
She chooses an all-black getup, extra small. Forget anything with bows, or the ones that resemble what a French maid might wear. Nor is she into any S and M games. Truth is, she’s not really into sex at all right now.
She doesn’t try anything on, and she doesn’t look at the cashier as she pays. Instead she glances at a mirror to her right. For a second she doesn’t recognize herself. About a week after she found out about all the shit Michael was into, she dyed her hair red and started wearing thick eyeliner and leather shoes that look like combat boots. The soft, innocent Bridget had disappeared.
At their two-bedroom rented home in West Roxbury, she puts the groceries in the kitchen, then goes up to the bedroom. The corset pushes her small, pale breasts together, making it seem as if she actually has cleavage. She fumbles trying to press the hooks of the garter belt onto the stockings. It takes ten minutes. Finished, she glances at herself, spins around, and likes the way her butt looks. She pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweater, then heads downstairs to make dinner—steaks and potatoes, Michael’s favorite.
“Something smells good,” Michael says when he opens the front door. He walks into the kitchen, but stays a few feet from her.
“Just dinner.” She smiles and opens the oven, pretending she has to check on something, because if she looks at him for one more second, she’ll call him a fucking asshole.
“For us?” he asks. Even though he’s six four, with scruffy hair and broad shoulders, he seems timid.
“Yep. For us.” She closes the oven door.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing special. Just thought we could have dinner together.”
“That’s nice.”
She watches him, her big, burly work-boot guy, the man she thought she knew.
“It will be ready in five minutes. There’s a bottle of Jack over there. Can you pour us each a glass?” she asks.
She brings out the food as Michael places their drinks on the table. His movements are halting, as if he’s overthinking his manners. Another whiskey will smooth out the discomfort.
“This is real nice.” He sits and begins to cut his steak.
“Figured we needed it.” She glances into his eyes, which used to make her think of beaches and warm summer days.
He finishes everything. She has two bites, her stomach feeling tight and small, her appetite gone. She refills their drinks and downs hers, hoping a buzz will give her more courage.
“Not hungry?” he asks, looking at her plate.
“I guess I have other things on my mind.” She does her best impression of sultry.
“God, I’ve missed you.” He reaches over and runs his fingers through her hair.
She takes a deep breath and leans toward him. They kiss. His mouth tastes salty, and despite it all, a part of her is coming alive.
She tries to pull away. “You go ahead upstairs. I’ll take care of the dishes and meet you in bed.”
He doesn’t let her go. He keeps kissing her. She has to push hard against his chest to free herself from his grip. “I’ll be up in a sec,” she tells him.
“I love you so fucking much,” he says.
“Go, or I might change my mind.”
She takes the dishes into the kitchen, then drinks another shot of Jack, giving him enough time to undress and get under the covers. She’s tipsier than she’d planned to be. In the bathroom, as she hangs her jeans and sweater on the door hook, she sways and bumps into one of the cabinet drawers. In it, there’s a brand-new container of lubricant. Michael brought it home over a year ago last Valentine’s Day. That, a pair of edible underpants, and a vibrator. They finished making love before any of the packages were touched. Now she opens the tube and puts in a dab.
It’s only three steps from the bathroom to the bedroom, yet it seems like a long trek across a hot-tar parking lot. She tells herself she can do this, then breathes deeply and walks into the room.
“Get over here,” he says.
“We’re going to take our time,” she tells him. “Roll over.”
He does as he’s told. She climbs on top of him, her knees pressing against his muscular upper
body, as she massages his shoulders.
He tries to turn, to reach for her. She pushes his hand away. “No, not yet.”
“You’re wet,” he whispers. “Just let me look at you.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for that.”
She teases him, keeps him on the edge, does all the things he likes. Finally, he’s on top of her and she knows he can’t last much longer. She wraps her legs around his waist and holds him close. She didn’t need the lubricant. She hates that she’s still so attracted to him, that even now she wants him.
“Bridge, I love you. I fucking love you.”
She turns her head. If she looks into his eyes, she’ll be right back to square one, feeling hurt, in love, used, and betrayed.
He holds her. “You’re amazing,” he says.
She slips out of bed and stands in front of him, hand on her hip. “Take a long look, because that was the last time you’ll ever get to fuck me. Go after some of those sluts you chat with online. See if they’re half as good.”
“Is this a joke?” he asks.
“Absolutely not.” She feels strong, victorious.
He stares at her, baffled. Then sits up, reaches out to her. She backs up.
“I want you to remember what you took for granted,” she tells him.
“But I never took you for granted. It was never that.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought more before you did all that shit.” The victory is exhilarating.
He stands. “Bridge … please.”
“You never get to touch me again. Get out of my bedroom.” She picks up a gold chain on her bureau. It slips, like water, through her fingers, and she feels herself break. Just a little.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
“There’s nothing more to talk about.” The necklace drops. The victory fades. She breaks a little more. “Go.”
“If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t have been so wet,” he says.
“I had help.”
His face turns hard. “You’re messed up.”
“Oh, really. That’s the pot calling the kettle black.” She keeps her head high.
“Bridge, if that was all an act, that’s a sick fucking thing to do.” He pulls the sheet from the bed and wraps it around his waist.
“You’re one to talk about sick fucking things to do.”
“I have an addiction. I’m working on it. I didn’t go out of my way to—”
“To what? Lie, deceive, and manipulate? Yes, actually, you did.”
He glares, then turns to leave.
After he’s gone, she rips off her corset and stockings and puts on sweat pants and a T-shirt. She tries to convince herself that this worked, that she won, that he’ll know what he’s missing every time he sees her. But she doesn’t feel victorious. She feels dirty and sad and, worst of all, lonely.
Kathryn
Kathryn Leblanc checks her cell phone. Five minutes to three. She sits on one of the two wooden chairs in the hallway outside of her supervisor’s office. She hopes Dr. O’Reilly will not be late for their final interview with Gail, a prominent Boston judge.
A woman, sixtyish, wearing a long beige raincoat walks down the hall and stops in front of O’Reilly’s door.
“She’s not here yet,” Kathryn says. “She’s running a little late.” O’Reilly was also late for the previous candidate, Hannah, who chose to sit with Kathryn and talk about the weather.
The woman, whom Kathryn assumes is Gail, checks her watch, then looks warily at the other wooden chair, as if she’s unconvinced it will hold her. Kathryn wonders if Gail’s substantial weight has emotional roots that might play into her staying with a sex addict.
Gail places her bag on the chair and takes off her Burberry raincoat.
“Do you have any idea when Dr. O’Reilly will get here?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” Kathryn stands and gestures to her chair. “Would you like to sit?”
Gail’s bright red lipstick is a stark contrast to her pale skin and gray hair. “With my rheumatoid arthritis, that chair looks unsuitable.” She adjusts the large ruffle on the front of her white blouse.
“I’m Kathryn Leblanc.” She extends a hand.
“Gail.” She shakes with a confident grip. “You are Dr. O’Reilly’s assistant?”
“I’m actually a graduate student. She’s my supervisor.”
“And you will be running the group?” Gail asks.
“I will be.”
“I have only an hour before I have to be back in court. Can you call her?” Gail asks.
“I’m afraid I only have her office phone number.” They both glance at the door as if it might magically open.
“I see. Perhaps while we wait, you can tell me a bit about yourself and why you’re qualified to run this group.”
Kathryn absorbs both the query and the tone. “I’m in my last year of my clinical degree program. I see patients in Brighton as well as at an office in Jamaica Plain, where the group will be held.”
“And you do have experience with spouses of sex addicts?” Gail asks.
Kathryn pushes aside her bangs, an old nervous habit. “I’ve worked with addicts and partners of addicts. I’ve done a lot of research on sex addiction, but no, I’ve never worked with spouses before.”
Gail’s hazel eyes narrow. “I see. And what type of members are you looking for?” she asks.
“Not any type, really. Women who are feeling betrayed and—”
Dr. O’Reilly arrives, out of breath, her coat hanging off her arm, her large bag bursting with papers.
“So terribly sorry,” she tells Gail. “Back-to-back meetings.”
Gail shakes her hand. Kathryn thinks they could be sisters. Not that their features are that similar. It’s more their age, their status, their ability to convey authority with a few words, a slight hand wave, and an assured glance.
Dr. O’Reilly unlocks her door, holds it open for Gail, then walks in before Kathryn.
Three chairs sit in the room. One is O’Reilly’s, behind the desk. The other two are made of soft red leather. Gail chooses the one closest to O’Reilly, who sits at the desk and fluffs her short, black-dyed hair. “Again, please forgive my tardiness.”
Although O’Reilly routinely apologizes for being late, she is rarely so emphatic. Kathryn guesses it’s due to Gail’s distinguished position.
Gail takes a water bottle from her purse. “I must head out in about thirty minutes.”
“I can see you’ve met Kathryn.” O’Reilly folds her hands.
Kathryn glances around at the large office, filled with bookshelves, African art, and small Buddhas. The first time she was in this room, she had been nervous, afraid O’Reilly, chair of the psychology department, would consider the proposal for the group trivial. Instead she had been intrigued, and Kathryn was sure she had landed a fantastic mentor. But as they have been conducting interviews, some of O’Reilly’s questions have been staid and old-school, and Kathryn has found herself uncomfortable with the fact that she often disagrees with her supervisor.
“My therapist assured me that you have an excellent reputation,” Gail says to O’Reilly.
“Please give her my regards and thank her for the kind words.”
“She also told me that you might be a candidate for the next university president. Very impressive.”
O’Reilly smiles, then tucks her head down as if this conversation were unsettling. “I really haven’t given it much thought.”
Kathryn knows she must step in before O’Reilly finds a way to weave in her publishing credits.
“Gail,” Kathryn says, opening a notebook. “May I ask how you discovered your husband was a sex addict?”
Gail repositions herself. “I was at my office.” She speaks softly, each word demanding the listener’s full attention. “My administrative assistant opens my mail. Barbara prioritizes and discards as she sees fit. I trust her immensely.” She places a manicured hand on her chest and sighs. “
You must excuse me. I have asthma, which at times affects my breathing.”
“Take all the time you need.” O’Reilly glances at the small gold mantel clock, whose face is hidden amid stacks of papers on the desk.
“It was about a year ago, on January thirteenth. I have never been one to believe in superstitions, but since that day, I find myself avoiding the number thirteen. But I digress.” She fans herself with her hand, even though the office is hardly warm. “The letter my secretary opened was from one of Jonah’s graduate students. My husband teaches philosophy, with the odd dip into theology, at Harvard. In the letter, the woman wrote that she thought it best to lay the cards on the table, an expression I dislike. She wanted me to know that Jonah was in love with her and not me. I read it as Barbara stood at my side, and then I assured her it was some sort of prank.”
Kathryn writes down everything as she thinks Gail’s focus on her assistant is a way to avoid pain.
“Did you have any support?” Kathryn asks. “Anyone else you could share the letter with?”
“I think what Kathryn means is, did you convey the contents of the letter to Jonah?” O’Reilly asks.
Kathryn glances at her notes. No, she meant what she asked. She wanted to know if Gail had friends, a family member, her therapist maybe, someone she could talk to. But at this point in the interview, Kathryn won’t openly disagree with O’Reilly.
Gail sips her water. “I did share the contents with my husband. In truth, I just didn’t think much of it. I was so sure he would say it was a hoax, or from a student who was mentally ill.” Gail shakes her head. “Instead he sat on the edge of the couch and cried as he told me that he couldn’t stop.” Creases fan out from the sides of her eyes, and Kathryn wonders about the age difference between Gail and the woman who wrote the letter.
“Do you think there might have been clues along the way that you missed?” O’Reilly asks.
“I think of that all the time,” Gail answers. “What should I have seen?”
“Would it have made a difference,” Kathryn asks, “if you did find some sort of evidence that you missed a clue somewhere along the way?”
Gail’s shoulders drop slightly as she seems to relax. “No, actually, it wouldn’t. Nothing would have really changed. I suppose it’s easier at times for me to do an inventory of my flaws instead of blaming Jonah.”
