by Sylvia True
“You think that woman up there, that Gail”—Bridget points to the building—“think she’s a control freak?”
“Maybe. It might be a way to deal with some of the stuff that really hurts still.”
“Yeah.” Bridget smiles. “I use anger. Probably kinda obvious.”
“It’s normal to be angry when you’ve been lied to.”
“First, Michael swore he was just consoling a friend. Then there were more calls, plus porn and this other shit, like married-hookup sites, fucked-up stuff. When I think that there might be even more I don’t know about, I feel sick to my stomach.” She pauses. “I still can’t believe it. Any of it. That I’m here, going to a group because my husband is a sex addict. It’s … degrading.”
“The initial discovery is shocking,” Hannah says. “It’s like you get thrown into a different reality.”
“That’s exactly how I felt when I found the first text on Michael’s phone. I kept thinking it was some sort of mistake. Then when I asked him about it, he got all defensive and said it was just a new singer they hired in his band, and she was going through a tough time. I fucking believed him. Not only that, I was relieved.” She ducks down when she sees Kathryn, looking all professional in her black coat, walking to her car.
“We don’t have to hide,” Hannah says.
But Kathryn seems like the kind of person who has it all figured out, and it makes Bridget feel like an even bigger loser. “Think she can help?”
“She seems nice, but young, and this issue is a lot to handle.” Hannah sips her Coke. “Has anyone ever mentioned doing a full disclosure?”
“Isn’t that what we just did?”
Hannah sits taller. “You do it with a therapist, but you have to prepare. You both go in, then Michael tells you everything. It’s awful, but at least you know all the facts and what you’re dealing with.”
“Did you do that?” she asks.
“No.”
“I think I’d die if I found out more details.”
“No, you wouldn’t, even if you felt like you wanted to.” Hannah nods slowly. “We just readjust. I don’t mean that in a simplistic way. But we figure out how to keep going.”
Bridget’s eyes fill with tears. “Think I’m going to have a breakdown?”
“No. That’s not what I meant at all.”
“It will be all right. Right?” Bridget wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.
“God, I wish I could promise it will be. I’m going to give you my numbers. Home and cell. If life feels too horrible and you need to talk, call me.” She rips the corner off an envelope and jots down her phone numbers.
* * *
Bridget gets in her car, starts the engine, and turns the fan on high. Cold air blasts out. She waits for Hannah to leave, then peels out of the parking lot. She hates Michael, hates her life, hates the road she’s driving on.
“Fuck you,” she screams to no one as she remembers the morning she came home from her night shift and found that first text. She’d been looking forward to snuggling with Michael.
Bridget pulls into the driveway and parks behind Michael’s pickup truck. Maybe he will be asleep. But that will piss her off too. How can he sleep when their marriage is cracking?
Gradually, she makes her way upstairs.
“How was it?” he asks, and pushes himself up so that his feet are no longer hanging over the edge of the bed.
“It sucked.”
“Sorry.” He pats the bed as if she’s supposed to hop in next to him, to talk to him as if she just went to a book club.
“It stinks that on my night off I have to drive to Jamaica Plain to listen to a bunch of women whose husbands have fucked them over.” She sits on the edge of the mattress, as far away from him as possible.
“Sorry.” He sounds like a broken record.
“And stop saying you’re sorry. Or at least say you’re sorry for the right thing.”
“Bridge.” He gets up and walks around to where she’s sitting. “I’m sorry for all the hurt I’ve caused.”
“Just tell me now if there’s anything else you haven’t told me,” she says. “I want it over with. I don’t want to look through any more phone bills or see on the computer that you’re still chasing after women.”
He sits and places his large hand on her back.
She shrugs him off. “Don’t touch me.”
He obeys, and yet she misses him.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
She thinks of something Hannah said. “I want you to give me a full disclosure,” she tells him.
“Okay,” he replies.
“You know what that is?” she asks, surprised.
“I’ve heard guys in my group talk about it.”
“Did you ever think to bring it up, that it might be helpful for me?”
“I thought it would happen when you were ready. That’s all.”
“So what else haven’t you told me?” Her veins feel twisted.
“Bridge.” He slaps his hand on his thigh. “I’ve told you everything.”
“All the details?” she asks.
He stands, walks to his closet, and tugs on a T-shirt. “It’s not like you think,” he says, backing up so that he’s nearly at the door.
“What is not like I think?” The question comes out tight, whispery and terrified.
“I mean … what I mean is … There was this guy in group the other night. He said that you can’t really move forward unless you’ve sort of … you know … put it all out there.”
Her body feels like it’s on fire. “But you just said you told me everything. Right?”
“Um. I told you most of the stuff. But this guy, he says that it’s, like, important not to keep secrets. It’s one of the steps,” he explains.
“You had to learn that from some guy in a sex addicts’ group? You don’t know it’s not okay to keep secrets from your wife?” Her voice rises.
“It just happened once.”
“It?” She stares at him. His back is against the door.
“I can barely remember. I hated it,” he mumbles.
“Remember what?”
“It wasn’t good. I mean, it was awful. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Did you fuck someone else?”
“I … I had sex with her.”
“Who’s ‘her’?”
“Vivian,” he whispers.
“The one you first lied about? The one who was supposedly a singer in your band and just needed some comfort?”
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry. But I had to tell you. It’s like the guy in group said. You have to start from a place of honesty.”
“Do you even know how stupid you sound? A place of honesty? You don’t know what the word means.”
“I’m trying, Bridge, that’s why I’m telling you this. I want us to have an honest, open relationship. I want to work toward that.” He runs his fingers through his hair.
“And if I don’t?”
“I won’t blame you,” he says.
“Ha. How fucking generous. You won’t blame me. And who will you blame? Your alcoholic mother? Your father who didn’t pay enough attention to you?”
All she wants to do is fight. She doesn’t want to think about him sleeping with Vivian. About how he felt her tits and her cunt.
He takes a step toward her. “Stop,” she yells. “I don’t want your filthy hands near me.”
“I only want to help.”
“Too late for that. Tell me, were there more?”
He looks like he’s pondering the question.
“Uh…” he stutters. “I mean … Well, yeah, I guess. There was one. A while ago. They didn’t mean anything. If I cared about them, it would be different. But I don’t.”
She stands, walks to her closet, and takes out an overnight bag, which she tosses onto the bed. From her closet, she yanks a shirt, then a pair of underwear from her dresser. In her he
ad she hears her mother, counting. That’s what she used to do to help Bridget fall asleep when she was a little girl. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen …
“Bridge, listen. You got to listen. I didn’t want to have sex with them. It was the chase, but it led … Shit, there’s no good way of saying this.”
She drops her hair dryer into the bag and zips it up. Then she counts her way down the stairs. When she’s near the door, Michael charges down, pushes her aside, and stands, large and solid, in front of her.
“Bridge, I love you,” he says.
The words are pellets, pieces of hail that bounce off a metal roof.
She slips past him and counts her way to her car, out the driveway, all the way to Huntington Ave where she finds a Holiday Inn.
The hotel receptionist gives Bridget a key card to room 135. Once inside, she paces, pulls at her hair, and kicks the foot of the bed. Her toe throbs. She has no idea how to get through this. In her pocket she feels the slip of paper with Hannah’s number and hopes it’s not too late to call.
Kathryn
Kathryn sits on the red leather chair farthest from O’Reilly, who fumbles through the mess on her desk, trying to locate the folder on the group. It’s already three-thirty. O’Reilly was half an hour late, and right now Kathryn would like nothing more than for this appointment to be over. If O’Reilly spends another few minutes searching her desk, all the better.
Finally, she sits back without the folder. Kathryn smiles politely.
“So how was it?” O’Reilly rubs her hands as if she’s expecting some juicy gossip.
“Fine,” Kathryn says. “They began to open up and tell their stories.”
“That sounds rather flat. Was there more emotion than you’re relaying?” O’Reilly asks.
“Yes, there were some emotional moments, but we only have about fifteen minutes so I thought it would be better to just stick to the facts.”
“I can be a little late for my next appointment. Don’t worry about time. I’m all ears.”
“Gail didn’t like the choice of some of Bridget’s language.” Kathryn chooses her words carefully.
“I’m not surprised those two would be at odds. I would have never recommended them being together.” O’Reilly gives her hair a quick fluff.
Kathryn swallows. “Well, they may not be together much longer.”
“And why is that?”
“I think Gail had a different sort of group in mind. Something more like S-Anon. I know she said she would like a private group, but I don’t think she really wants feedback. I was worried about that during her interview.” Gail was your choice, she thinks.
“My, my. A few moments ago you told me everything was fine. I would hardly call this fine, having a member wanting to drop out on week one.” Her small brown eyes open wider. “Can you describe exactly what happened?”
“I think Bridget is frightened. I believe her fear came out as anger and was directed toward Gail.”
O’Reilly nods as if she agrees, which might be a first.
“Did you get Bridget to acknowledge that her anger was based in fear and being projected?” O’Reilly asks.
“I tried. But I don’t think she was ready to see that, and Gail said she was looking for a group that wasn’t so contentious.”
“An opening group certainly shouldn’t be contentious. It’s the time to go over ground rules and make sure everyone feels safe. Naturally that’s what you did?”
“Of course.” Kathryn takes her notebook from her bag and flips through it, stopping when she sees the summaries she wrote just an hour ago.
Gail: Needs control. Is her life more out of control than she wants to admit?
Flavia: Brave. Beautiful. Seems like a risk-taker.
Bridget: Young, raw. In shock.
Lizzy: Uses her husband’s desire for her as a barometer of her own self-worth.
Hannah: A good listener. But holding back.
“I’d rather you not turn to your notes at the moment. I think it would be best if you just answer my questions. Did you explain that the group wasn’t a place to judge others?” O’Reilly asks.
“I did. But I think Bridget felt judged by Gail, and that’s what sparked her anger.”
O’Reilly rubs her chin. “You know, after Bridget’s interview I said I thought she was volatile. I doubt I would have recommended her.”
“I chose her because she seemed to be in a lot of pain, and she doesn’t have a therapist or anyone to really talk to about all this.”
O’Reilly takes a deep breath. “Perhaps it would have been better to have told Bridget that individual therapy is generally suggested before diving into a group. Of course it’s too late now. But it might be worth considering if a situation such as this arises in the future. And”—she wags a finger—“if Bridget is the reason Gail leaves, it’s likely she’ll pin her anger on another member.”
“She seemed to get along with the others.”
“Yes, because she had Gail. But really, you must understand without Gail, she will find someone else to target. Perhaps I should call Gail and speak with her,” O’Reilly suggests.
“I think we should wait and see if she returns.” Kathryn looks at the clock on the desk. It’s already five past four. This session needs to end.
“No, I think a check-in call would be good. I don’t see what harm it could do, and Gail did have confidence in me. Perhaps I could reassure her.”
Kathryn pushes aside her bangs. “I know she likes you and has faith in you, but I’d like to see if I can build a relationship with her on my own. So, if you wouldn’t mind…”
O’Reilly nods enthusiastically. “Yes, I see your point. Why don’t we see what happens next week then, give you more time to form a bond.”
“Thank you,” Kathryn says.
“But if Gail does come next Wednesday, it’s imperative that you provide a safe environment for every group member.”
For the moment, Kathryn feels relief that her supervisor won’t be calling Gail, who might report that Hannah was having doubts about returning as well.
“I’ll do that,” Kathryn says.
“If she is not there, I’d like you to call me first thing Thursday morning. Then I would need to contact her and see what’s going on.”
“All right.” She looks at the clock again, then stands. “I’m sorry, but I’m meeting someone in half an hour.” Just last week, she read an article about how lying to your supervisor is a form of denial. It’s probably true, and Kathryn promises herself she will think about her behavior, but at the moment, she only wants out.
Gail
Gail is fifty-nine today. She doesn’t remind Jonah of her birthday when he makes the coffee and she cuts the cantaloupe.
“Well,” he says, after he finishes breakfast, “I’m off.” With his gray eyes set too close, his ears too large, and his thin lips, he might not be the most objectively handsome of men, but he has what Gail loves—an intelligent, thoughtful countenance.
He walks to where she sits and places a light kiss on her cheek. The touch is electric. Magical even. But then he’s gone, and she’s left with her lukewarm tea and a body that feels lethargic.
Slowly, she pushes herself up from the table and takes her cup to the sink. Just a simple “Happy birthday” would have been nice. Then again, she isn’t the type to want any fuss. But if he had made her breakfast in bed, she would have been so happy. She opens the pantry, reaches behind the tins of soup for a hidden candy bar, and hurriedly eats it.
At work, Barbara, who has been with Gail for seventeen years, has left flowers on her desk and a sweet card. There are a few meetings with ADAs in the morning, and then the afternoon is free. Jonah doesn’t teach classes today, and as Gail looks over her calendar, she decides she will be spontaneous. She will stop off at the store and make a gourmet picnic lunch to bring to his office. It will be a sort of inverted birthday surprise.
She’s back home by noon. In the kitchen she whips up a cucumber,
mustard, and dill salad and packs it with a bottle of cabernet and the fresh éclairs she just bought. She glances in the mirror. Her suit is a boring, boxy nondescript gray. To spice it up, she throws on a purple scarf.
Walking across the quad carrying the basket, she keeps her head high, reminding herself that she’s a distinguished judge and needn’t feel that she’s somehow not good enough to be strolling along the green at Harvard. And although she knows how hard Jonah works, she can’t escape the thought that somewhere on this campus he was meeting up with April.
Then there was the other student. The one he didn’t sleep with. The one who gave him a confidence boost, five years ago, when he hadn’t been promoted from associate to full professor. It was understandable that some young, doe-eyed graduate student who fawned on his every word would make him feel better. Gail was much more devastated than she let on. She blamed herself. She was so busy, having just been appointed a judge. If she could have traded her promotion for his, she would have in a second.
Her therapist has told her to focus on the present, and that’s what she’s determined to do today. People who have survived hardships together can come through them, sharing a deeper and stronger bond.
A student holds open the heavy wooden door. She thanks him and pauses in the entrance. Two young women flit by, chatting gregariously. She pictures them in Jonah’s office, enthralled by his every word. Couples separate over much less than what she and Jonah are working through. But that’s exactly the point, she thinks as she attacks the stairs. She and Jonah are choosing to make their marriage work.
Winded by the time she reaches the third floor, she sets down the basket and composes herself. After a few moments she takes small steps, wishing the wide wooden floors wouldn’t creak so loudly. Jonah’s light gait probably barely makes a sound.
His door is closed. It’s likely that he’s not in, that he’s in the library or having coffee with another professor. She knocks.
“Yes,” he calls.
“It’s me, Gail,” she says, relieved to hear his voice.
A few seconds later, the door opens. He greets her with a bemused smile.
