by Sylvia True
“She was found lying on some beach, naked.”
Kathryn mouths, What, but no sound comes out.
“They took her to a hospital. She may be dead,” Bridget shouts, then begins to cry.
“Did they say what hospital?”
“No.”
“You said you saw her picture? Are you sure it wasn’t someone else?” Kathryn asks.
“I know what Gail looks like.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean it like that. I was only wondering…” But she can’t think clearly. She doesn’t know what she was wondering. Just that Bridget must have the facts wrong.
“Did you know she was a judge?” Bridget asks.
“Yes.” That piece of information virtually confirms Gail’s identity.
“What are we going to do?” Bridget sounds desperate.
“First, I’m going to make sure it was actually Gail.” She puts a hand on the front table to steady herself. “Then I will find out if she’s okay.”
“I know it was Gail. It’s not like I wouldn’t recognize her.”
“Can I reach you at the number you’re calling from?” Kathryn closes her eyes for a second. Shadows reach out to her.
“You need to find out what happened,” Bridget says.
“I’m going to make a few calls right now, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Hurry.” Bridget hangs up.
Kathryn looks at the phone, not making a move. She knows she should be thinking of more logical, rational, concrete things, but her brain isn’t working the way it should. Was there something she should have done differently? Something she should have paid more attention to?
Dazed, she walks to her study, sits, and stares at the bookshelf. Minutes pass. She opens her laptop and types Judge Larson into her search engine. A picture of Gail fills the screen. Underneath it, Kathryn reads North Shore, esteemed judge, possible suicide attempt.
Hannah
Eleven-fifteen, Friday morning, Hannah is driving to Kathryn’s office. It’s the last thing she imagined she’d be doing today.
It doesn’t seem possible, what Kathryn said on the phone. Fragments circle, as if they’re outside of her, unable to settle. Sad news. Found on a beach in Gloucester. Almost drowned. In ICU at Beth Israel. She glances at the speedometer. It reads seventy-five. She should slow down. It’s not as if getting there sooner will change things. Details probably won’t help either, yet she feels that’s what she needs. Details and answers.
She takes a sharp left into the small parking lot across from the Victorian house and dashes in. Bridget is already there, her eyes red and swollen. Kathryn’s face is drawn. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, her bangs pinned up. She looks frail.
Hannah walks in and sits on the couch, where Flavia used to sit. The hard Windsor chair, her usual seat, seems hostile.
“What about Lizzy?” Hannah asks.
“I tried the hotel,” Kathryn replies. “But she checked out yesterday.”
Hannah lays her hand on Lizzy’s empty spot on the couch. “Maybe it was meant to be, that she didn’t have to find out. If she knew, she’d be pacing in the hospital lobby.”
“I can’t fucking believe it.” Bridget stands, then sits again. “I mean … when I saw that picture of her on the news, I thought maybe she had a twin or something.”
“Do you know what happened?” Hannah asks Kathryn.
She fiddles with a paper clip. “I called the hospital. Her husband was there. I spoke to him for a few minutes, but … it wasn’t the time to ask for specifics.”
“Did he reveal anything?” Hannah takes off her blazer, but then feels chilly and puts it back on. She can’t get comfortable.
“He said she was distraught. Not acting like herself. He thought it could have been some sort of breakdown.”
“Yeah, I sure as hell wouldn’t believe anything he said. For one, Gail wouldn’t have had a nervous breakdown. She wouldn’t allow it,” Bridget says.
“It’s very hard to hear distressing news about people we care about.” Kathryn glances from Hannah to Bridget. Her shoulders look bony in the silk blouse she’s wearing.
“You said she was in ICU,” Hannah says. “Do you know any more?” Answers would help her nerves.
“I’m afraid all they could tell me was that they were getting her stabilized.”
Bridget stands. “Then I say we go to the hospital and find out. If he knew she wasn’t okay, and he let her drive…” She faces the door.
“They only allow family into ICU,” Kathryn says. “I think it would be best if you stayed and talked about how you’re feeling.”
Bridget spins around. “How I’m feeling? Seriously. How the hell do you think I’m feeling? Angry, guilty, and fucked-up.”
“That sounds frightening,” Kathryn says.
“Can you not be a therapist for once, and just be human? Gail might be dying, and you’re just doing the talk. Perhaps you should think about how strong you are,” Bridget mimics. “I’m not strong. I feel like my insides are corroding in acid.”
“I’m sorry you’re in so much pain,” Kathryn says.
“Jesus, there you go again, stating the obvious. Maybe it would help us to know how you’re feeling about this.”
“I’m shocked and deeply concerned, as you are. But what’s important in here is how you’re feeling,” Kathryn replies.
“Wow.” Bridget shakes her head. “You really can’t stop.”
“Bridget.” Hannah gets up and walks toward her friend. “She’s trying. She’s upset too.”
“I say we go to the hospital,” Bridget says.
“I don’t know,” Hannah replies. “Maybe we should talk a little more first.” She rests a hand on Bridget’s arm.
“I think we should find out if her husband cheated, and if he did, we should…” Bridget looks ready to fight.
“Let’s stay here for a little longer,” Hannah suggests. Bridget causing a scene in the hospital won’t help anyone.
“Whatever.” Bridget walks to her chair. Hannah takes the seat next to her. When she realizes it’s where Gail usually sits, she feels dizzy, as if the world is spinning the wrong way.
“When you described how you were feeling, one of the words you used was guilt. Can you talk a bit more about that?” Kathryn leans toward Bridget.
“I feel like we should have known more. If we were her friends, like we said, we should have known what was going on in her head. We could have done something. I mean, I kind of made fun of her for her life being so hunky-dory with a sex addict. It’s like we never took her totally seriously. And when she really needed us, she probably didn’t think we’d be there.”
“I think you found a way to connect with her that she really appreciated. Sometimes, when someone isn’t thinking rationally, they don’t make the best choices. I don’t think it has anything to do with her not feeling your support,” Kathryn says.
“Not enough for her to call when she was in trouble.” Bridget runs a hand over her belly.
“I know we’re not supposed to blame ourselves,” Hannah says. “But remember what I said to Gail a couple weeks ago? About how getting letters from her husband’s girlfriend didn’t exactly promote confidence?” Acid rises in her throat. She feels as if she’s going to be sick. “What if she took that to heart, went home, and started questioning Jonah? What if…” She’s warm again, but taking her blazer off would mean she’d have to shift, and right now even small movements would upset her stomach more.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bridget tells her. “If she went home and found out he was a liar, that’s not your fault.”
“She’s right,” Kathryn adds.
“I shouldn’t have said that though.” Hannah stares at the window behind Kathryn as a focal point to settle her nausea. The glass looks as if it’s rippling.
“You can’t go down that path. None of us can. I know I started all the ‘It’s my fault’ shit. But it’s not.” Bridget looks at Kathryn. “And it’s not your
s either. You’ve been good at this. At dealing with all of us. I know I just yelled at you, but that wasn’t really about you. You’ve done everything you could for us.”
“Thank you,” Kathryn replies.
Hannah fiddles with the button on her blazer. Right now she would like nothing more than to be out of this room. To never talk about sex addiction, or hope or support or guilt or blame. To never think about what Gail did. But she also knows she can’t keep pushing things away.
“When I was driving here today, I thought about facades.” Hannah’s face feels hotter. “I thought about how Gail seemed more together than the rest of us. God, I hate to say this, but I think I haven’t been far from teetering on the edge of a breakdown of my own, and if I don’t start getting it out there…” She stops. The second hand on Kathryn’s clock ticks.
Bridget places a hand on the arm of Hannah’s chair. “Keep going,” she whispers.
Hannah takes a deep breath and focuses on the window. “I…” she hesitates.
Taut silence follows.
“I hate Adam sometimes. I love him too. I don’t know if it would bother me more or less if his addiction was with women, but I do know that what hurts is that his attention wasn’t on me or the kids. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and I spend hours imagining all the things he’s done, all the lies he’s told me. I think about stupid things, like the fact that he probably spent ten minutes picking out a birthday present for me, and three hours planning a hookup. Then I tell myself to stop being petty, to get over it and move on. I should be grateful for the things I have. And I am. It’s just that I still get so angry, and I’m afraid I’m going to get old and bitter.”
“Does the anger frighten you?” Kathryn asks.
Hannah takes a moment to think about the question. “I guess. Yes. But it’s more than that. It’s the hurt. Mostly the fear. That just when I get complacent again and think everything is fine, I’ll discover that Adam’s still being unfaithful. That my whole life is a lie. So I keep myself guarded, like I’m afraid to really live, and what kind of life is that?”
“Talking about all these things might help,” Kathryn says.
Hannah chuckles. “Funny, I hear myself tell that to other people all the time. Might be good if I listened to my own advice sometimes.”
“It can be hard to take care of ourselves.” Some color has returned to Kathryn’s cheeks.
Hannah nods. She agrees, but what she’s feeling at the moment is relief that Kathryn looks healthier, sturdier.
“We have to look out for each other, too,” Bridget says. “I mean, if we don’t, then who’s going to be around to help us? If Gail doesn’t get better…” She lowers her head.
“Why don’t we go to the hospital and see,” Hannah suggests.
Bridget grabs her bag and looks at Kathryn. “You coming?” she asks.
“I think it’s best if I don’t. But please call me and let me know how she is.”
The tree outside of the window is now sharply in focus. A bud looks ready to burst open. Hannah stands and walks to her therapist. It might be against the rules, but she doesn’t care. She hugs Kathryn, who returns a warm embrace. And for the first time Hannah feels completely sure that she will be returning to this room.
Acknowledgments
I have been a teacher for so long, I had almost forgotten what it was like to be a new student. The process of getting a novel published, with its excitement and challenges, put me right at the beginning of the learning curve. Without the help and support of some wonderful people, I could not have managed this journey.
My agent, Joy Harris, has been a truly phenomenal teacher. Her patience, her intuitive understanding of me and my work, her cheerleading, and her warp-speed replies to my endless questions have reminded me that really good teachers are great coaches.
A huge thanks to Jennifer Weis and her team at St. Martin’s Press for helping to shape and edit the novel. Jennifer’s clarity about how and what to change was remarkable.
To Caroline Upcher, for reading through rambling drafts and always pointing me in the right direction. Also thanks to Bonnie Hearn-Hill, an extraordinary instructor, for teaching me the foundations and the essence of a scene.
I am truly blessed to have supportive friends, who were willing to read and reread, and give honest feedback in a way that didn’t make me feel as if I should use the pages as kindling. Thank you, Randy, for the hours and hours of phone calls. Thank you, Caryn, Anne, Barbara, and Amanda, for always being there. To my sister, Anne Lutz, a psychiatrist, thank you for answering many of the specific and technical questions. And to all the people who generously shared their stories of struggles with addiction, you are courageous.
To my husband, whose critical eye helped keep this real.
And lastly, to my adventurous and eccentric daughters, who jump into life with both feet, you motivate me.
About the Author
SYLVIA TRUE was born in Manchester, England, and now lives in Massachusetts with her husband and dogs. The Wednesday Group is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Lizzy
Hannah
Bridget
Kathryn
Session One
Bridget
Kathryn
Gail
Hannah
Session Two
Hannah
Lizzy
Session Three
Gail
Bridget
Hannah
Session Four
Gail
Hannah
Session Five
Lizzy
Bridget
Session Six
Gail
Kathryn
Lizzy
Session Seven
Lizzy
Bridget
Hannah
Lizzy
Hannah
Lizzy
Hannah
Lizzy
Hannah
Bridget
Session Eight
Hannah
Gail
Kathryn
Hannah
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE WEDNESDAY GROUP. Copyright © 2015 by Sylvia Ture. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Michael Storrings
Cover photograph @ Lisa Adams photography
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
True, Sylvia.
The Wednesday group / Sylvia True. — First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-250-04892-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-05188-2 (trade pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5004-0 (e-book)
1. Married women —Fiction. 2. Group counseling—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.R75W44 2015
813'.6—dc23
2014033797
e-ISBN 9781466850040
First Edition: March 2015
br /> Sylvia True, The Wednesday Group
