by Debra Kent
’Til next time,
October 23
Crazy week. It began with my new client Claire, and I’m still reeling. On the surface, Claire is a model wife and mother, a pillar of her church and a hardworking PTA volunteer. She’s petite and rather plain-looking, wears no discernible makeup, and speaks with a flat midwestern accent. Underneath her bland surface, though, is a woman I thought only existed in the pages of Nancy Friday sex fantasy books.
Clarie’s husband, a respected endocrinologist, simply has no interest in sex. So in 1995, sweet little Claire decided quite consciously that if her husband wouldn’t give her what she craved, she would find it elsewhere. And not with one lover, but almost fifty. A different lover every month for the last four years. “I never wanted love,” she told me. “I already get that from my husband. He’s a good man, a wonderful father, a friend. I never wanted another husband. That’s not what I need.”
At first I didn’t understand why she came to me. She doesn’t seem particularly troubled. While I’m so wracked with guilt I’m ready to disembowel myself, Claire feels perfectly justified and appears amazingly guilt-free. But after our second session, I understood. She simply needed to share her stories. She’d had no one to talk to. So now she talks to me. I’m dying to tell someone, but obviously I can’t. All I can do is write.
Her first affair wasn’t planned. “We had new neighbors, and I’d baked some cranberry muffins for them,” she told me. “I rang the bell but no one answered. I opened the door and walked in on a housepainter. Apparently the new neighbors were having work done on the house before moving in. He was reading a dirty magazine and playing with himself in the dining room.” She paused. “He didn’t stop when he saw me, and I didn’t leave. I just watched. After a while I helped him and before I knew it, we were on the floor. I don’t know what possessed me, but it was the most fun I’d had in years. We kept it going for three weeks, until he was done painting the house.”
I tried to remain expressionless, but I wanted to scream, “Are you nuts?” At the same time, frankly, I find this woman absolutely fascinating.
Now here’s how my crazy week ended: The phone rang as I was leaving the office. “Hi, Sweetie.” The tone was spry, playful. I felt my adrenaline surge as I realized who it was. “Don’t hang up. Please.”
“Diana.” I had to grip the phone with two hands to keep from dropping the receiver.
“The one and only,” she responded, in a voice that seemed, unbelievably, to be more kind than cocky. “I need to see you to make amends.”
“Please, no, that’s okay,” I told her. “Just live your life. You don’t need to make amends to me.”
“But I do. I must.” There was a long pause, and then: “Don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. I really need to see you.” She explained that she gets a day pass from prison next week and wants to stop by my office. Against all instincts I agreed. “Fine. But I’ll only have a few minutes.”
“That’s all I’ll need,” she assured me.
Is she really coming to make amends, or is she going to blow my head off?
’Til next time,
October 30
I’ve been having my white cottage fantasy a lot lately. In this reverie I’m living alone in a small and simple white cottage on the south side of town and everything is exactly the way I want it to be. I’ve got a Maine coon cat, a few apples in the refrigerator, creaky wood floors, and no TV. I’m sickened by the excesses of my suburban life—the Weber grill on the deck, the overstuffed closets, five TV sets, the flood of junk mail, the mess. For as long as I’ve been married, every decision—choosing carpets, appliances, vehicles, wallpaper—has been made by committee. I want to be alone.
Of course, this is only a fantasy. I’m superstitious. God, if you’re reading this, please don’t punish me by killing my kid (you can do whatever you want with Roger, however). I have this fantasy when I’m feeling totally overwhelmed. Do I really want to live alone? Not if it means giving up Petey. He is still the love of my life. And I’m thrilled to report that he hasn’t had an accident in weeks and he’s back in preschool!
As for Halloween, it’s a toss-up between a pirate and Barney (I vote for the pirate).
As planned, Diana came by the office today. I still can’t believe she had the nerve to show her face, but she insisted it was part of her “recovery.” Apparently, she joined Alcoholics Anonymous when she was in jail. One of the twelve steps is to “make amends” to everyone she has harmed. She looked smaller than I remembered her, but also happier. She hiked up one trouser leg and showed me the electronic device strapped to her ankle. “My personal Big Brother,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What can I say? It’s the least I deserve.”
Diana explained that her only purpose in visiting was to apologize. “I’m an alcoholic,” she said, looking straight at me. “I’m not making excuses. I tried to wreck my life, and everyone else’s too. I was awful to you. And I’m very, very sorry.” She looked so earnest it was almost spooky. “I’ve been sober for thirty-two days,” she said.
I stared at her. Was she for real? I waited for the snide remark, and eventually, it came, although in retrospect I believe she was trying to be helpful, in her own twisted Diana-esque way. “There are twelve-step programs for overeaters, too, you know,” she said, eyeing my expanded waistline, then gesturing toward the two-pound bag of M&M’s on my desk, already half empty.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I knew about Alyssa. And I guess I’m also sorry I never told you. I mean, I assume you would have wanted to know.” I could feel my jaws clench. “I actually walked in on them together in his office,” she continued. “I’d stopped by for a quick hello. They were on the floor.” She stopped and checked my reaction. I turned away. “I told him he was being a pig.” Diana stood up and straightened her pants. “It was a rare moment of clarity. I knew he was wrong, even if you had your own thing going with Eddie.” I knew it. The old Diana had reared her ugly head. It didn’t take long.
“Don’t start with that,” I warned her.
After Diana left, I took the bag of M&M’s and dumped the whole thing in the garbage. Then, on impulse, I looked for Overeaters Anonymous in the phone book. I jotted down the phone number, then threw that in the trash, too. Before I left, I dug out the bag of M&M’s. And the phone number.
One last thing: Today we met with Roger’s attorney and learned that Alyssa claims she can prove that she wasn’t the first student my husband “harassed.” Roger denied having any other involvements, but I’m suspicious. If it turns out this man has had other affairs, my marriage is over. I swear it.
’Til next time,
November 6
Publicly I am a success; my practice is stronger than ever. I’ve been invited to present papers at two different conferences next year and to moderate a panel discussion at another. From all appearances, I lead a charmed life. A dashing blond husband, an adorable child, a lovely home. Privately, I am dying inside. I am eating my way through the week, from Kit Kat bars to dry cocoa mix. My marriage is a farce.
I saw Claire again this week. She shared another of her escapades, and I listened, captivated. (I must say, this client makes up for all the ones who have nearly put me to sleep.) She had been called in to audit a law firm in Headley (she’s a CPA) and was working closely with the firm’s accountant, Dave. “He was married and geeky,” she recalled, “but there was something else there, something almost animal. I imagined he was like me. You know, quiet on the outside but capable of great passion. I also thought…” She trailed off.
“Go on,” I told her.
“Well, he seemed lonely. Like me. And I thought maybe I’d be doing him a favor.” After a week on the job, Claire made her move. “It was easy,” she said. “I told him he smelled good—and he did. Royal Copenhagen, I think. He blushed, and I said it again, whispered it this time: ‘God, you smell good.’ He looked at me and I just knew. I knew he was interested. I was up all night, thinking a
bout that look. Pure desire. I need that more than food, I think.”
Apparently, Claire wasted no time in making her next move. The following evening, she and Dave were working overtime, bleary-eyed from all the number crunching. She ran a finger lightly across his hand and suggested they take a break. Over coffee she told him, simply, that she was attracted to him. “I thought he was going to have a heart attack. His eyes bugged out and he started sweating. Then I saw … you know … movement… in his trousers.” They were the only ones left in the office. They had sex in the conference room.
I knew that Claire belonged to the Sweet Valley Christian Church, one of the most conservative fundamentalist churches in the city. I wanted her to explain how she reconciled her sexual behavior with her faith. “Don’t you think it’s a sin?” I asked her.
“Yes, it’s a sin,” she said, leaning forward. “But I’ll tell you what’s a greater sin. When a man won’t love his wife, body and soul. That’s a sin.” She fell back in her chair. “Yes, I’m a sinner. But I sin out of necessity, like a starving person stealing food to stay alive. I truly believe that.”
I was going over my notes from that session when I heard a soft rap on the door. It was Eddie. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since that icky e-mail about his “crib.” He was extremely polite and seemed to be using all the big words he knew. He was nervous. He admitted that he thinks about our afternoon at the Roundtree every single day, and he asked—no, begged—me to be with him again. I felt a mixture of revulsion and searing arousal. “No strings,” he said. “I won’t pester you, I won’t ask you to leave your family. Just a little mutual pleasure between two consenting adults. Come on, what do you say?”
I told him I needed to think about it. Like Claire, I am so lonely.
’Til next time,
November 13
It’s been a hell of a week. On Monday I ran into Eddie’s wife, Patty, at the supermarket. There she was looking like death with no makeup and an ugly yellow-green bruise on her cheek. She had two kids in tow. No, make that three kids. She is pregnant! I don’t know if Eddie’s the father but I wouldn’t put it past him to screw her while they’re separated. On the other hand, she looks like she’s about five months along, so maybe this happened when he was still living with her. But Eddie had claimed he’d stopped having sex with Patty soon after we became involved. I don’t know what to think. This has clearly put a damper on any feelings he may have stirred in me. It makes me absolutely sick to my stomach to think he may have knocked her up. It also makes me a little sad to realize that I could have been five months pregnant by now.
I literally cannot remember the last time I had sex. I’m still too angry at Roger to feel amorous, and all our meetings with the lawyer make me even angrier. Privately, I told his lawyer I had an eyewitness to his affair (Diana) and asked whether that might weaken Alyssa’s case against Roger. He doesn’t think so.
If her lawyer is crafty enough, it’s possible to prove that she had sex only to placate him, and, above all, he abused his authority. As for the tapes I’d made of her phone call and messages: I cannot find them anywhere. I thought I’d stashed them safely away in my dresser drawer, but they’re gone. If I were a more fastidious and organized housekeeper, I’d assume someone had stolen them, but I’m so damned disorganized it’s quite possible that they’re sitting at the bottom of a heap of crap in my closet. I must locate those tapes!
I’ve now confided in three people regarding this mess (a.k.a. my life), and the consensus is that I must leave Roger. Betsy, who has heard only snippets of this saga when I have the energy and nerve to share them, is adamant. “You’ve suffered long enough,” she told me. “Stop being such a martyr. Make a new life for yourself.” Elaine, a woman in my cardio-spin class, insists that I’m actually damaging my child by exposing him to my rotten marriage. “What kind of life are you modeling for him?” she exhorted between gasps for air. “Do you want him to replicate your marriage in his own life?” (A budding family dynamics therapist, no doubt.)
And then there is my own mother. Over drinks at Pico’s, I poured out the whole sorry tale and she surprised me by grabbing my hand and saying, “You know your father and I don’t approve of divorce, but if you have no other alternative, we will always be here for you.” She even offered to help pay my attorney expenses! (The truth is, she never liked Roger anyway and probably wouldn’t mind if she didn’t have to spend another Thanksgiving with him.)
So now my best friend, my mother, and an objective outsider are all urging me to leave my husband. I’d probably offer the same advice to any one of them if they were in my position.
But there is one thing I’ve learned as I’ve matured: life isn’t all black-and-white. There’s plenty of gray. In fact, maybe it’s all gray. I cannot be convinced that my leaving Roger will be better for Petey, and frankly I simply don’t believe those who say I’d be doing him a favor.
First of all, it’s not at all clear that I’d get full, or even partial, custody. Roger has been the more involved parent since he works from home, and the kind of lawyer he can afford could easily make the case that Roger’s the better choice for a stable, loving environment. Secondly, more and more judges in our state are ruling against shared custody, pointing to recent studies suggesting that it actually may be detrimental to children to divide their lives between two different households. So the possibility that I might actually lose Petey is so sobering, so very horrifying, that I refuse divorce.
Call me stubborn, crazy, stupid, whatever. The day I see someone like Alyssa playing with my kid in the park is the day I shoot myself in the head. And if Betsy or Mom or cardio-spin girl has a problem with that, she can mind her own damn business.
’Til next time,
November 20
It’s a miracle I haven’t been institutionalized by now. I’m so stressed, so miserable, so conflicted—I feel as if I could spontaneously combust. A quick rundown of my god-awful week:
On Monday, Roger’s attorney informed us that Alyssa had apparently turned up a former student, as well as a secretary at the Writers Guild, who claim they were coerced into “sexual contact” with Roger. He played dumb during the meeting, then later that night told me he had some “involvements” with other women several years ago, but wouldn’t offer further details except to insist that he never had sex. My reaction to all this? I was too fatigued and disgusted to get angry. For the first time in my marriage I looked at Roger and saw a total stranger. A pathetic, troubled loser.
I told him he had to pack his things and get out. I haven’t heard from him since.
Petey woke up Tuesday morning and asked, “Why isn’t Daddy having breakfast with us?” I said, “Pete, something’s happening with your Dad and me.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. You’re getting a divorce, aren’t you? Just like Patrick’s parents and Sabrina’s parents and Emily’s parents. Right?”
I took a deep breath. I wasn’t ready for this. I looked at my little man sitting there, bracing himself for the bad news, and at that moment all I wanted to do was hold him and rock him. “Well, sweetie, we don’t know about that yet. We’re having some trouble getting along, and Dad needed some time to be by himself.”
I watched Petey digest this bit of information. “Mommy?”
“Yes, honey?” (I wanted to cry.)
“If you and Dad get a divorce, will you buy me a Power Wheels Jeep? ‘Cause that’s what Patrick’s mom did when she got a divorce.”
On Wednesday, my mother called to say that my father has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. In the meantime, I haven’t been able to get the picture of Patty—pregnant with their fourth child and looking like a bruised banana—out of my head all week. I know it is none of my business. After all, I’m the one who told Eddie to go back to his wife. I told him I was sticking with Roger. I had rebuffed his most recent attempts to reach out to me. Do I have the right to complain? Of course not! But I just can’t let it go.
Dinner las
t night: a loaf of bread, six Reese’s peanut butter cups, and a beer. I fell asleep on the floor next to Petey’s bed. I know I should feel happy that Roger’s gone. This could be the start of a new life, a happy life. Why aren’t I celebrating?
’Til next time,
November 25
Roger showed up Sunday morning looking like he’d slept in the gutter. His clothes were rumpled and he smelled bad. He said he’d been sleeping in the van, parked by the lake. He begged me to talk to him.
“Not a chance, you philandering little shit,” I told him.
He laughed derisively. “Some therapist. All that money I spent on your doctorate, and that’s your response? Tell me, Doctor, clinically speaking, is this really the best way to handle a spouse who seems to be making an effort toward reconciliation?” The supercilious bastard! I wanted to kick him. He tried another approach: “Look. It’s not as if you haven’t had your dalliances. Face it. We’ve both screwed up.”
I considered this reasoning for a moment. On some level he was right, of course. But I didn’t have the energy to start weighing his affair with Alyssa—and now his “involvements” with two other women—against my relatively sexless relationship with Eddie. I also suspected that there might be even more “involvements” with even more women. I didn’t want to talk to him. I told him I needed more time to be alone. And I told him he wasn’t welcome in the house.
He could have forced his way in. It is, after all, his home too—generously financed by his family’s trust fund. But Roger was apparently remorseful enough to back off. “Fine. Whatever you say. Just let me get some of my things.” When he came back downstairs with his clothes stuffed in a Hefty bag, he asked, “So what do we call this? A separation?”
