by Debra Kent
But things aren’t so simple now. I know that I’ve been as instrumental as Roger in fouling things up. By the time I reach the office, in an uncharacteristic moment of maturity and grace, I have resolved to salvage my marriage.
But this is how my day ends: Eddie slipped into the elevator as I was leaving for the day. I thought he wanted to talk about Diana but I was wrong. His eyes gave my body a hot, raking gaze. “Be with me now,” he said, pressing me against the wall. Then he did something I’d only seen in movies. He pushed the red button and the elevator abruptly ground to a stop between floors. He put his lips on my neck. I could feel his breath, warm and moist, and I pulled his head toward mine. I was propelled by an energy that had no conscience. My lips met his as he slipped his hands under my blouse, then my bra. I could feel his arousal as he pushed slowly, rhythmically against me. “Let’s get a room,” he whispers, “at the Roundtree.”
Like someone who must have one last hot fudge sundae before starting a diet in earnest, I decide that before Roger and I begin counselling, I must have Eddie.
’Til next time,
May 22
The Roundtree Hotel was four and a half blocks from the office. We practically sprinted there, yet I felt as if I was moving through Jell-O. The anticipation was unbearable, painful.
Could this really be happening, after all these months of fantasy and flirtation and contemplation? The animal instinct I’d felt in the elevator had subsided, replaced by a stream of self-rationalizations: After over six sexless months, I deserve this. I need this. Just this once. I can handle it. Roger’s doing it, why can’t I? My marriage had collapsed like the Berlin Wall, how much worse could it get?
I remembered couples I’d seen on TV who had “open” marriages, and thought, that’s not such a bad idea. I recalled scientists who said humans weren’t built for monogamy. I thought of a client of mine who had unselfconsciously nurtured a twelve-year affair after her husband was stricken with multiple sclerosis.
Then I remembered my prim neighbor, a forty-year-old named Ann who admitted (after a few too many tequilas at a Labor Day block party) that a brief fling with her dentist literally saved her life; her marriage wasn’t just dead, it was in rigor mortis. She found herself weeping in supermarket checkout aisles. She despaired at the notion that she might spend another forty years in this airless chamber of a marriage. It took a scant three months with the dentist to revive her—a faster turnaround than any therapy could offer. She saw herself through her lover’s lens as a sexy, vivacious woman, and now, from this position of strength and security, was able to resuscitate her marriage. I held fast to Ann’s story as Eddie slid his credit card across the counter and signed for our room. When he put his hand in the small of my back to gently guide me toward the elevator, I suddenly remembered, with astonishing lucidity, the summer of my sixth year when, after much hestitation, I finally plunged off the diving board into a swimming pool. There is this moment when fear and reason are simply overwhelmed by irrational desire, when one must stop thinking and move.
And now I sit here, alone in my office, staring at the hand that holds this pen, and know I must write about the two hours I spent with Eddie in Room 1040 at the Roundtree Hotel. How can I possibly give language to what happened between us? If it had been a disappointment, if he didn’t know how to move me from arousal to climax, if he’d been selfish or hasty or lazy or clumsy … I’d be relieved now. I could say, I tried it, and it is over, and I can turn my attention once more to the man who shares my bed night after night.
But I would be lying.
The Roundtree is the only really nice hotel in town, the kind of place you send out-of-town guests if your goal is to impress. The closets are filled with good wooden hangers, the kind that could actually function in your closet if you chose to swipe them, and there are always two large wicker baskets in the bathroom, one to hold a pair of soft terry cloth robes, and another for toiletries, and not just the usual shampoo and shower cap, but peppermint foot cream, a wooden rolling back massager, and a small plastic case filled with sixteen sewing needles already threaded in sixteen different colors.
Our suite was done up in shades of peach and creamy yellow, and there was a large arrangement of silk flowers on the narrow table in the foyer, and I remember thinking that someone had taken great care to arrange this room but the only thing of any value right now was the expansive bed against the wall. It really didn’t matter whether it had a sheet, let alone this lovely bedspread with its brocade trim and its swirls of peach and creamy yellow.
And then, after Eddie had pulled me urgently toward him, and pushed me up against the wall, I knew that even the bed wouldn’t be necessary. As Eddie ripped down my zippers and yanked up my bra, he was more beast than man, lapping me up greedily, kissing my mouth with savage insistence. He still had his clothes on, which intensified my arousal, but when I tried to reach for his belt buckle he pulled my hand away. “Not yet,” he whispered hotly into the nape of my neck.
I slid his pants off and we fell upon the bed, and with fingers and tongue he explored and savored each part of me. He seemed to know intuitively how to please me, softly here, a bit harder there, quickly then slowly. His rhythms matched mine, his mouth tasted like honey. He stared at me as he brought us both to the peak, and he sighed into my neck as he collapsed beside me, exhausted and elated. We both dozed off—it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes—but when I opened my eyes and saw him snuggled beside me, slaked, comfortable as a cat, I felt a terrible surge of adrenaline streak through me. What had I done? What, really, do I know about the man whose body fit mine so perfectly only moments ago? What does he know about me? And where do I go from here?
’Til next time,
May 28
We spent the evening at my in-laws’ last night. It was a bon voyage party for Roger’s sister Lori, who has decided, rather suddenly, to teach English to peasant children in Peru.
I’d never felt so joyless. There I was, sitting next to Roger on the patio, picking at my skewered vegetables, trying to make small talk, pretending to be a real wife. Everyone was so festive, so engaged in the celebration, while I felt more and more isolated, as if I were watching the scene from a corner of the room.
Then someone put an old Paul McCartney song on the stereo and I remembered how it felt to lie beside Eddie in our bed at the Roundtree. He had traced a finger over my stretch marks—the crinkly skin I’d been almost too embarrassed to reveal to him—and said softly, “I love these.” He slid down and pressed his lips against my soft belly. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he told me. The only comment Roger ever made about my stretch marks was, “What the hell are those?”
I watched Roger cross his legs and I saw his little foot in his little leather loafer and felt like killing myself. I excused myself, locked myself in the bathroom, and cried until my eyes swelled.
I had to call Eddie. I’d written his number on a drinking straw wrapper and had stuffed it behind the credit cards in my wallet. I fished through my purse and retrieved the tiny paper wad, unrolled it, and pulled out my cell phone. Patty answered. I hung up on her. My mother-in-law was standing outside the door when I opened it, took one look at my face, and knew I’d been crying. “Is everything okay, dear?” she asked me. I assured her I was fine. Allergies, I said.
When I rejoined Roger on the patio I felt as if someone had slipped a plastic bag over my head and tightened it around my neck. I literally could not breathe. My heart fluttered erratically and I thought I might be having a heart attack. I felt claustrophobic, but no space was large enough to contain me—I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. I staggered away from the table (Roger, characteristically, did not notice I was in distress) and paced the front porch waiting for the terror to subside. Roger’s father appeared beside me. He slipped an arm around my shoulders, under the pretext of comforting me. I wriggled away and went back inside.
It wasn’t until later that I realized I’d had a genuine panic attack. Sev
eral of my patients suffered from panic disorder, but I never realized how harrowing panic attacks are until last night.
When I got home I took some antihistamines, as much for the sedation as the relief from congestion. I was fairly doped up by the time Roger slid into bed beside me. Unbelievably, he wrapped his body around me from behind. He was aroused. I felt repelled at first, but I was too drowsy (and curious) to resist him. He traversed my body with a skill and ferocity I’d never seen before, and as long as I didn’t dwell on the origins of his newfound abilities—his forays with Alyssa, no doubt—I actually managed to enjoy myself.
But here it is, the morning after, and I feel only remorse. I know it’s crazy. He is still my husband, after all.
’Til next time,
June 5
That night of lovemaking could have been an opening for Roger and me; once we had bridged the chasm between us physically, maybe we were ready to reconnect emotionally. But the following day, it was business as usual. Roger acted as if he had no memory of what happened in bed, like a drunk who blacks out after a bender. After sex, we slept in our traditional back-to-back position. When I woke up in the morning, he was already gone.
If sex couldn’t provide a starting point for discussion, then Alyssa’s diaphragm would. All week I planned how I’d confront Roger with the plastic case I’ve carried in my bag every day since I found it in the van. I thought I might put it on his dinner plate and announce, “We’re having the chef’s special tonight. I call it ‘adultery souffle.’ “ I could leave it on his computer keyboard with a note: “Is this yours?” I even considered dangling it from the rearview mirror.
But none of these are realistic options, of course. First of all, they’re entirely too immature for two adults (one of whom is a licensed therapist!). Second, who am I to cast stones? Now I’m not sure I know what to do with this stupid diaphragm. It’s really kind of gross to think that another woman’s birth control is rattling around in my bag, next to my lipstick and keys and pictures of Petey.
In the meantime, I can’t stay away from Eddie. We had lunch at the Parthenon and Eddie actually got up and danced while the waiters shouted, “Oppa! Oppa!” Eddie, it turns out, is a full-blooded Greek (he changed his named from Pappas to Bennedetto after his mother remarried and he was adopted by his stepfather). I became virtually intoxicated by the whirling music, the baklava that dripped with honey, the cheering of the rowdy waiters.
A veiled bellydancer coaxed me onto the dance floor, and against my better judgment I found myself mimicking her undulating steps while Eddie watched, amused at first, then transfixed. As we walked back to the office he pulled me into an alley between stores and pushed me up against the wall, then kissed me long and hard until I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to have him right there, but quickly imagined the headlines: Local Therapist Caught in Public Sex Act!
Eddie mentioned, casually, that he’d be going to his eldest daughter’s softball game, and for the first time I felt jealous of his family. I imagined Patty (a short, bouncy blond is how I picture her) sitting thigh-against-thigh with Eddie in the bleachers, sharing a bag of chips, cheering their girl on. What if she hit a home run? Would they embrace?
What am I saying? Only a week ago I’d resolved to repair my marriage, and now I’m having masochistic fantasies of Eddie and his wife? This is nuts.
To do this week
1. Make an appointment with a good therapist (Sue Bridges? Alex Wellman?) and go—with or without Roger.
2. Tell Eddie I’ve decided to work on my marriage and can’t see him anymore. Really.
3. Send Petey to in-laws for the weekend and start talking to Roger.
’Til next time,
June 8
My period is two days late. I’m normally as regular as the morning paper. I’m sure it’s just stress. I’m not going to think about it.
’Til next time,
June 10
I’m now four days late. I’m looking for clues: the metallic taste on the tongue, the queasiness, a heaviness in my breasts, the fatigue. I seem to have them all. Or maybe I’m just imagining it.
’Til next time,
June 11
Five days late. I’m sure I’m pregnant. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Oh God. I don’t know if it’s Eddie’s baby or Roger’s! And I’m frantically trying to remember what I’ve put into my body in the last few weeks. When I was pregnant with Pete—even before I got pregnant—I was neurotically careful. I didn’t take aspirin or cough medicine. I stopped spraying the rose bushes, stopped painting my nails, stopped tinting my hair. I stood twelve feet from the microwave, never used an electric heating pad, stopped going to the dry cleaners, steered clear of cigarette smoke, hired someone to paint the nursery, and took a hotel room overnight to avoid the fumes.
But now I’m just living life, exposing myself to all the usual hazards. And I’ve been drinking. Oh God, what have I done? What if this baby is born with a tail, or some other hideous reminder of my negligence?
I have to go throw up now.
’Til next time,
June 12
It is 1:15 in the morning and I’m in the grip of another panic attack. A half hour after falling asleep I was awake again, heart pounding in my ears. My mind would not rest. I felt like my brain was channel-surfing, restlessly clicking through surreal images, fragments of conversations, irrational thoughts. I felt nauseated.
By the time I slipped out of bed, the panic had fully taken hold. I tried to distract myself, but every thought led to an intensification of the panic. The upcoming conference in Washington, my parents’ visit next month, Petey’s preschool picnic—events I’d normally anticipate with at least some measure of enthusiasm—now filled me with terror. And then there was the possibility—no, likelihood—that I’m pregnant!
No doubt some of what I’m feeling is related to pregnancy hormones. But that can’t be the only reason why I’m awake now while everyone else sleeps. It’s also because my world is in turmoil.
I’ve never been much of an adventurer. When I was in college an astrologer told me that I craved the security of a stable family and home, that the key to my happiness would be rooted in the everyday routines and simple pleasures of a well-run household built on a strong foundation. Though she offended my feminist sensibility, I knew she was right. When all is right with my family, all is right with the world. Now our little trio teeters on the precipice.
Maybe it will help to unload some of what’s gnawing at me now …
1. Petey has been wetting his bed, after almost two years of wearing his “big boy” underwear. He’s so ashamed of himself, it just breaks my heart. What’s worse, of course, is knowing (and I do know it) that the bed-wetting is a reaction to the tension in the household. He’s a bright kid. Even if he doesn’t understand what’s happening, I’m sure he knows intuitively that his parents are headed for disaster. I feel so guilty.
2. I might be carrying another child. But whose child is it—Roger’s or Eddie’s? What will they say when they find out? What will Roger say if this baby turns out to be dark and Mediterranean-looking? How do I really feel about having another baby?
3. After weeks of assembling the evidence against Diana, I plan to share my information with the clinic’s CEO next Tuesday at 2 P.M. As much as I revile that woman, I’m not as excited about turning her in as I thought I’d be. I’m actually scared. After all, I’m about to destroy her career, her life. She may even wind up in jail! So what am I afraid of? I have this horrible idea that she might show up with an automatic machine gun and blow my head off. Or hurt Petey.
4. I finally confronted Roger with Alyssa’s diaphragm. I couldn’t muster the kind of self-righteous outrage I’d originally envisioned when I first suspected he was sleeping with her. Now that I’ve been with Eddie, and in light of Petey’s bed-wetting, all I could do was pass it across the kitchen table and ask, quietly, “Do you want to talk about this?” Roger stared at the plastic case for a long time
as his face flushed, then drained of all color. In silence, he reached feebly for it, unable to meet my eyes. All he could manage to say was, “She’s my student. I was holding it for her. She didn’t want her parents to find it.” Another long pause. I could almost hear his brain riffling for an alibi. Finally: “She has a boyfriend. She uses it with her boyfriend.”
Did I believe him? Of course not. (What kind of student gives her teacher a diaphragm to hold for her? And what kind of teacher takes it? Besides, I heard them on the phone. I know what’s going on.) But tonight, in my panic, I thought: what if my impetus for plunging into bed with Eddie—Roger’s affair—never existed in the first place? And now I’m the only true sinner?
I’m going to try to go back to sleep now.
’Til next time,
June 13
I’m beginning to warm to the idea of having a baby. A BABY! I’ve missed the delicious smell of baby skin, the warm, soft, milky breath, the adoring gaze as she (I’m sure it’s a girl) suckles at the breast. I see young mothers wheeling their babies to the park and think, I will be among them once more. My childbearing days aren’t over after all. I, too, can be a young mother again. I can wear maternity clothes again. I will feel the heft of a swelling belly again and I will know the profound joy of pushing a new human being through my loins and into the world. I, too, will have a sweet new baby to stroll down the street, to swing at the playground, to nurse and cuddle and kiss. This nostalgia is so powerful that, at least for a moment, it doesn’t seem to matter who the father is.
