The Wednesday Group

by Sylvia True

  “No fucking way,” Michael says. “I said I’d do one. What’s this about more?”

  “The literature I gave you strongly suggests sex addicts have a polygraph once every three months. I have clients who do it for themselves, not for their partners. It actually helps them stay sober. You can think of it like someone who has a weight problem needing to stand on the scale to remind themselves of their goal.”

  “He didn’t read any of the pamphlets you gave us,” Bridget tells Ramirez.

  “I didn’t have time,” Michael says, glancing away.

  “But you have time to play the guitar and watch baseball.”

  “Maybe you both need more time to think about this,” Ramirez suggests.

  “He’s just trying to get out of it. I knew he would,” Bridget says.

  “I wouldn’t be here if I was just trying to get out of it. I’m doing it for you.” He’s about to comb his fingers through his hair but stops himself. She’s told him it makes him look nervous. “For us,” he says.

  She crosses her arms. “Fine. Then we’ll just stick to the question about whether you had sex with more people than you’ve told me.”

  His work boot taps the floor. “Um…” He runs his hand through his hair.

  She feels like her heart is a pebble thrashing around in a tin can.

  “There have been, haven’t there?” she asks.

  “I swear I didn’t remember it until we got here. I guess I sort of put it out of my head. Is that something people do?” he asks Ramirez.

  “It happens, yes. There are people who compartmentalize, and until they are forced to confront certain events, they are capable of forgetting. We normally see this sort of thing with post-traumatic stress disorder.” He brings his pencil to his mouth. “With dissociative disorders too.”

  She wants out of this beige nightmare. Her heart hurts. She really thought this whole polygraph thing was going to help, to prove to her there weren’t more lies. She’s been so fucking delusional.

  “Bridget,” Ramirez says, “you look pale. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  He sounds so far away. The pebble is thrashing. She wants to go back to that hotel on Huntington Ave and turn the air conditioner on high until the only thing she can feel is cold.

  “I want to know if he ever brought any of the women flowers,” she finally says.

  Ramirez writes that down. “That’s certainly something we can find out. May I ask why that might be important?”

  “It would tell me if he cares about them. If he brings them flowers, then he does have feelings.”

  But she knows, as soon as she’s spoken, that it’s stupid what she’s asking. Stupid and pointless. She told herself she’d leave him if there were more lies, and now she’s sitting here in her pink summer dress knowing full well there were more, and she’s still contemplating a way to rationalize staying with him. If he didn’t bring them flowers, if it was really all about the chase, and the conquest, and not about love or caring, then maybe … But—no.

  She can’t. She can’t take it anymore. She gets up and walks out, right to the parking lot. Heat radiates from the blacktop. The afternoon light is unforgiving.

  Neither of them says a word on the ride home. Michael parks the truck in front of the house. Bridget hops out and hurries to her car in the driveway. No way can she be with him. He holds up his hand for her to stop and talk. Now? Now, fuckhead, you want to talk? She gives him the finger, backs out, and drives to the hotel on Huntington Ave.

  At reception, she asks for a room on the first floor.

  “I have two-thirty-four,” the woman says.

  “Is that the first floor?” Bridget asks.

  “Yes, it is, ma’am.”

  That someone just called her ma’am and that a first-floor room is in the two hundreds is just the cherry on top of this day.

  Bridget crashes onto the bed, yanks a pillow from under the cover, puts it over her face, and screams at the top of her lungs. When she’s done, her stomach feels like it has butterflies, but she’s not nervous and she doesn’t feel sick, even if she should after all the crap that happened today. She places a hand on her belly. It’s there again, the gentle flutter—the baby moving.

  SESSION SIX

  Hannah’s bed is strewn with clothes. In the end, she decides on a plain white sleeveless linen blouse, jeans, and gold hoop earrings, a simple, nonthreatening, blend-in-with-the-wallpaper outfit. She has to apologize to the group for her behavior at the bar last week. As soon as she’s done that, she plans to sit quietly for the rest of the session. She recalls her first week of group, how she didn’t want to get out of the car, how her instincts told her, don’t go. She should have listened.

  Adam and the kids are watching TV in the den. She pokes her head in. “See you later,” she tells them.

  “You haven’t left yet?” Adam asks.

  She refrains from saying anything snide in front of Alicia. “Leaving now.” She waves good-bye.

  She wants to be late. She wants them to be immersed in someone else’s problem and not even notice her. Surprisingly, she’s not the last to arrive. Flavia isn’t here.

  Hannah sits on the wooden chair and folds her hands in her lap. Bridget avoids eye contact. No surprise there. Gail has the beginnings of a scowl. No surprise there either.

  “Gail,” Kathryn says, “is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

  She turns to Hannah. “I was talking about a trip to Ireland that Jonah and I have decided to take. It wasn’t that important. What I’d really like to talk about is boundaries.”

  Hannah’s face heats. “I’m sorry about last week. I shouldn’t have brought Jake over.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have had so much to drink,” Gail tells her.

  She’s right, of course. Still the scolding stings. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you worried about how much you’ve been drinking?” Kathryn asks.

  “No. It’s only when we went out after group that I drank, and I’m not doing that again,” Hannah explains.

  “You have the right to tell him anything you want about your life,” Gail says. “But I don’t want him connecting the dots and figuring out anything about my situation.”

  “Really,” Hannah says, “I get it. I know I was wrong.”

  Gail takes a deep breath. The buttons on her blouse strain. “We understand why you did it. We only need to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “As I said, I won’t be going again.”

  “No harm done,” Lizzy says. “Please come out with us, though.”

  “Thanks. But I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Not for a little while at least.”

  “Probably,” Bridget mumbles. “Not like you really liked us anyway.”

  Hannah looks straight ahead at the cream-colored wall. She’s done what she came to do. There’s nothing left to say. She had too much to drink. She acted like a jerk. If Bridget needs to interpret that as dislike, Hannah isn’t going to argue.

  “Are you okay?” Kathryn asks.

  Hannah feels irritated. Her hands, still in her lap, clench more tightly. “Yes. I’m sorry I made a mistake and violated boundaries.”

  “What I’m trying to get at”—Kathryn leans forward—“is why you would have too many drinks in the first place. That is often a sign that you’re trying to avoid something.”

  “You think?” Hannah says. Kathryn seems unflustered by the sarcastic remark.

  “Yes, I do think that.”

  “I’m always trying to avoid my life. As in right now. I only came to say I’m sorry. I really have nothing else to talk about.”

  “Really? Nothing?” Bridget asks.

  “Not that I can think of,” Hannah replies with a nonchalance she doesn’t feel.

  Bridget kicks off her flip-flops. One of them bounces on the carpet. “I don’t think she trusts us. It’s like she can’t talk to us. About the real stuff,” she tells Kathryn.

  Hannah shakes he
r head. “I talk to you.”

  “You don’t. Not really. The rest of us, we open up in here. We put our pain on the line.”

  Bridget’s right. Hannah is a coward. But she isn’t about to let them see that. She sits taller. “I’m sorry if it’s not enough for you. It’s the best I can do.” She glances around the room. The only one who meets her gaze is Kathryn.

  “I have wondered,” Gail says, looking at a painting, “why you haven’t told us about your situation.”

  “It’s private.” Hannah crosses her arms in front of her, then realizes that makes her look more defensive. She drops them to her sides.

  “I think we’re touching on some very important issues here,” Kathryn says. “These addictions involve all sorts of secrets and lies, and they have a ripple effect, impacting many different relationships.”

  “You know the old saying,” Gail comments. “You’re as sick as your secrets.”

  If she is trying to tell Hannah she’s sick for not talking about her husband’s transgressions, then so be it. Hannah nods politely in Gail’s direction, then faces Kathryn.

  “The thing is,” Bridget says, “you can tell that douche bag Jake about your life, but you can’t tell us. How do you think that makes us feel?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But then she remembers something—how that night she kissed Jake behind the bar she smelled something soft, like spring, but it wasn’t that at all, it was Bridget’s perfume. She’d been standing outside longer than Hannah had realized.

  “You told him your husband was a sex addict,” Bridget says.

  Kathryn adjusts herself in her chair so that she’s facing the exact midpoint of the circle, favoring no one. “I think it’s important to understand that everyone is going to share their stories in different ways to different people.”

  “It’s about trust.” Bridget picks up one of her flip-flops and bends it. “It’s like she doesn’t trust us.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Hannah knows she sounds aloof, protective, but it’s only because she feels as if she’s going to burst into tears, and she doesn’t want to do that.

  “We understand how hard it is,” Gail says. “We all grapple with the shame and humiliation.”

  “I get it.” Hannah holds up a hand. “I know you’re all here to listen. I just don’t have much to say right now.”

  “I think it’s important that you know we aren’t going to judge you or your husband.” Gail speaks softly.

  Hannah’s skin blisters. “I get it. Can we move on? Please.”

  “We know about Adam.” Gail extends her arm as if she’s reaching out to Hannah. “It’s okay,” she says.

  Hannah feels ill. She glares at Bridget. “I understand that you might have overheard something you shouldn’t have. But how dare you tell anyone.”

  “I didn’t know what to do with the information. I wasn’t gossiping, if that’s what you think. Plus, Gail can be trusted. She’ll take our secrets to the fucking grave,” Bridget says.

  Gail places a hand on her chest. “She’s right. I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

  “That’s not the point.” It feels as if hot lava is roiling under Hannah’s skin.

  “Can you talk about what you feel the point is?” Kathryn asks.

  “My situation isn’t up for public discussion.”

  “Perhaps you can talk about why it’s so hard for you to talk about your situation,” Kathryn suggests.

  Hannah can feel all eyes on her. Kathryn is only being a good therapist, yet Hannah feels exposed and enraged.

  “It just feels private.”

  Bridget picks up her other flip-flop. “Then why come to this group in the first place? I mean, the point is that we’re supposed to talk about our lives, not keep everything all bottled up. Maybe someone else would make use of your spot.”

  “I’ve thought about that. And I agree. When I began this group, my intentions were to share. But in the past few weeks, I’ve learned that I’m not comfortable doing that. I’d gladly give my place to someone who might make better use of it.”

  “I think it might be very helpful for you to work through this.” Kathryn’s voice is gentle.

  For Kathryn’s sake, Hannah would like to oblige, but for her own sake, she can’t. “I don’t agree.”

  “It’s hard,” Kathryn says, “that people might know more than you wanted them to know. It can feel as if you have lost control.”

  Hannah nods. “All I know right now is that I’m not ready to disclose everything. I’m sorry if I upset anyone. That was never my intention.”

  “You push people away.” Bridget stretches out her arm and makes a halting gesture. “I know you can be warm and caring, but just so you know, you push people away.”

  Hannah’s eyes fill. Bridget is right. She is doing that, and she can’t stop herself, and she doesn’t know why. What she does know is that if they keep going, if they keep picking at her, she’s either going to start screaming for them to shut up or she’s going to throw up.

  “Can someone else please talk?” Hannah asks. The words come out squeaky.

  “I’ll go,” Lizzy volunteers. “Last week, after group, Greg and I had a huge fight. I ended up kind of hitting him, and he shoved back. I banged my head and had to get a couple of stitches.”

  “If he laid a hand on you, that’s abuse,” Bridget says.

  “I started it.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Gail interjects.

  “I know, but it ended up being sort of good. We actually held hands and laughed at the hospital.”

  “It doesn’t seem as if it’s something to laugh about,” Kathryn says, alternating her gaze between Lizzy and Hannah.

  “I know it doesn’t sound that way. But you know the kind of laughing that you do to release tension? It was like that. We enjoyed each other’s company. And it wasn’t a bad cut.”

  “You might be minimizing,” Gail says. “What was the fight about?”

  Lizzy waves a hand. “It was stupid. About him not making me feel loved.”

  “How is that stupid?” Bridget asks.

  “It was late. I was haranguing him with questions.”

  “And you don’t feel like he abused you?” Kathryn asks.

  “Definitely not. If anything, it was me. I was the one who wanted to get into it, physically. It was pent-up rage.”

  “That’s how I felt at the polygraph place. Michael didn’t even pass the fucking pre-test. He admitted to more lies. More women. And I wanted to kick the shit out of him. I couldn’t be with him. I went back to that hotel on Huntington. I stayed there for three days until I couldn’t afford it anymore.”

  “And now?” Gail asks.

  “We’re in the same house. Hardly together, though.”

  Hannah squeezes her hands. She feels the rage too, only not at her husband. “I can’t take this,” she says. “I can’t sit here and listen to what they do to you.” She looks at Lizzy. “Maybe you had a happy moment with Greg, but he treats you like shit. Over and over, and you let him. He gives you nothing. You’re a beautiful, talented woman. You deserve more.”

  “Hold on,” Bridget says.

  “No, you hold on. Michael is just going to keep lying. He’ll find a way out of the next polygraph too, and even if he takes one and fails, he’ll figure out how to make you stay with him.” She faces Gail. “I don’t know about your husband. I hope to God it’s what you think. But the fact that you just got another letter from his girlfriend doesn’t exactly promote confidence.”

  Gail points her chin forward. “She was never a girlfriend. I think you’re projecting right now, and this isn’t about us, but about you.”

  “Here’s what I do know. Five percent.” Hannah holds up her hand. “Five. That’s it. Five percent actually get rehabilitated. That leaves ninety-five percent who don’t. There are five of us in this group and if one of our husbands actually does get better, that’s twenty percent. That’s—”


  “We’re not imbeciles,” Bridget says. “We get the math.”

  “It’s just that we can’t keep fooling ourselves. No offense to you, Kathryn, but it’s not like this group is going to cure our husbands.”

  “I don’t think that’s why we’re here,” Lizzy says. “I think we know the statistics. But we still have hope.”

  “Yeah, we have hope,” Bridget chimes in.

  “Really, hope? You know who else had hope? Concentration camp victims. The Nazis used to drive them to mud fields. They’d dump them off and tell them whoever found a four-leaf clover would be saved. They dug until their fingers bled. That’s where hope gets you.”

  “Maybe we have reasons to believe there is something in the mud,” Bridget says. “Maybe you’re the one fooling yourself. Maybe you don’t talk about any of this shit because you don’t want to face the fact that your husband is gay.”

  The air withers. Everything stops. Time, movement, voices.

  “I’m sorry,” Bridget mumbles. “I didn’t mean for that to come out.”

  Hannah stands and walks to the door. “I don’t think my being here is helping anyone.” But just as she’s about to leave, Flavia bursts in.

  She holds the hand of a man with olive-colored skin, thick, wavy black hair, and a five-o’clock shadow. “I am so sorry to interrupt,” she says. “I knock, but no one seems to hear.”

  Hannah takes a step back. Flavia is radiant in a white sundress with her hair French-braided so that it looks like a crown.

  “Flavia.” Kathryn stands. “Perhaps your friend could just sit in the waiting area for a few minutes.”

  “Of course. This is my husband, Dema.” Flavia kisses his cheek. He beams. She says something in Greek, then rubs the small of his back. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be separated from her, even for a minute, but he does what she asks of him and leaves the room.

  The moment the door is closed, Hannah turns to Flavia. “You look amazing, and it’s nice to see you, but I can’t stay.”

  “I would like it if you could bear with us for a few more minutes,” Kathryn tells Hannah.