When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  Sophie mouths a “sorry” as I say, “Apparently it’s some girl he works with. She’s some floozie assistant cook or something. Lara knows of her—says she couldn’t care less at this point.”

  “Lara said when he started his new job things really started to fall apart,” Robin adds.

  “Obviously. He goes and meets the home-wrecker. How could she not know?” Sophie pulls a perplexed face. “I mean, I guess the signs aren’t always obvious.” Sophie and Robin share a quiet and small moment.

  I won’t get into the yucky details, but Sophie used to have this boyfriend, right out of college (no doubt the “status quo” asshole). Then there was this really drunken and stupid and totally forgiven accident—Robin kind of hooked up with him one night. It sounds really crazy, and a lot of people might think Sophie’s insane to ever have forgiven Robin for something like that, but life and relationships and friendships are funny things. Some are just so damn strong and important that even the things that move mountains can’t move anything as monumental as a bond you have with a friend.

  Anyway, Sophie didn’t see the cheating signs when that happened; why would Lara see them with Nathan and this ditzy coworker? Sometimes all of the signs are pointing and screaming so loudly at you, but you just can’t see them, or hear them. And maybe sometimes you don’t want to…

  “Isn’t it often the slinky coworker?” Sophie says, a puzzled look in her eyes.

  “Usually,” I say. Both girls look at me with expecting gazes. “My magazines say that, anyhow.”

  “Well, now more than ever we need to be supportive of Lara,” Sophie says with determination.

  “That’s right,” Robin agrees. “The best thing for that girl is to just hold her head up and move on—and know we’re here for her.”

  “And probably busy herself with work until it’s put far behind her,” Sophie says pragmatically. “That or get therapy. It worked for her with the last guy.”

  “Speaking of which,” Robin says, resting her hands on top of her watermelon of a belly. “You’re seeing that new therapist, aren’t you, Jack? How’s that going?”

  I set down my frilly, floral-patterned teacup and look at Sophie, who’s now standing, wanting to stay and chat but needing to get back to work.

  “You’re right!” I say. “I haven’t even told you girls about my new therapist yet. Dr. Pierce.”

  “Fab?” Sophie asks with a grin, bringing out her pen and pencil as a young college-aged couple walks through the café’s door.

  “I’d say.” I make a thumbs up.

  “Okay. I’ll be back in a jiff, and I want to play catch-up some more.” Sophie picks up the scattered pieces of trash on our table and stuffs them into her apron pocket. She makes her way over to the couple who’ve just seated themselves near the large front window that’s painted with a cherry-topped cupcake and the words The Cup and the Cake printed in a pretty, swirly font in pink.

  “What happened with Dr. Milbanke again?” Robin blurts out, drawing my attention away from the newly arrived couple, who are sitting with their fingers entwined, foreheads pressed together. “That’s his name, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I look to Robin. “Dr. Milbanke said he couldn’t really help me anymore. Said it was time I moved on to a recommendation of his.”

  “Oh, yeaaah.” Robin tilts her head back in recollection.

  “Anyway.” I jiggle my foot, sliding my chestnut-colored, stiletto-boot up and down a bit. “I’m really liking the new shrink. I’ve only been seeing him for going on two weeks, but he’s really helpful. Insightful.” I smile to myself as I think about what Dr. Pierce said at our last session. “He thinks he can really help me learn to grow and deal with my pain.”

  “That’s really great, Jackie,” Robin says. She gives me a small but genuine and understanding smile.

  “And he also said he’s going to help me learn how to appreciate my life.” I pause briefly. “And Andrew. ‘Cause, you know, things are so rough.” I give an awkward shrug.

  “Wonderful.” She tries her best to reach over the table, but her watermelon tummy is keeping her from making much progress. I hold my hand out to hers, and she squeezes it. “That’s wonderful, Jack.”

  “And,” I say rather loudly, looking proudly from my left to my right, “he’s going to help me realize that divorcing Andrew is not the answer to my problems.”

  “Okay,” Sophie says, rushing back over to our table. “What’d I miss? I think I’ve got five minutes.” She plunks down into the seat next to me, startling Bella from her sleeping position in her carrier nearby. “Your therapist. The new one. Dish, dish.”

  Chapter Six

  It’s no secret. Okay, so it’s only a secret to Andrew, the second-most important yet fully unaware other party in the whole divorce discussion. The girls all know that a couple of months ago I kind of ran off the ledge, full lemming style, and researched divorce law in Washington state. I don’t know why they made such a big deal about it when I told them what I was up to. It was only research. And it’s not exactly the easiest of things to Google or search for in the library, let me tell you. Just getting a library card so I could access the library was the biggest hassle of all. I can’t imagine what an actual divorce would be like!

  I ended up copying a few papers on the topic, hurt my brain trying to understand a fraction of what they said, and after a really hot night under the sheets with Andrew and a new Tiffany brooch, and eventually a chat about how we needed to keep our marriage in front focus, I decided I didn’t want to divorce him after all. The whole idea was no longer up for discussion, and I told the girls I was happy in my marriage once again and would not be visiting a divorce court any time soon. And even when I got down in the dumps about my marriage, like oh-so-recently with Andrew jetting off to LA so abruptly, I’m not running back to the library and going into research mode again.

  Fast forward a wee bit, on the chaise longue of my new therapist, Dr. Pierce, and somehow I got to spewing forth my trip yet again, however brief, down Divorce Drive. Of course, Dr. Pierce wanted to further explore that greying area on day one of our sessions, and what could I say? Every now and then we’ll reference it, but I’m working on healing.

  The big ‘D’ is not the only thing Dr. Pierce and I talk about in my therapy sessions, though. God knows I have more that’s plaguing me than minor issues of researching divorce law.

  Dr. Pierce and I talk about all sorts of things. Well, really I talk and he listens, but that’s the beauty of the doctor-patient relationship. I get to talk and talk and he gets to answer on occasion, and always with really helpful advice. When I want to talk to Andrew I’ll often get a, “Let’s do this later, baby doll,” or “I’m really tired, let’s get some sleep and visit this tomorrow.” And occasionally it’s, “Can’t you talk to your therapist about this? I bet he could help. I pay him enough.” Ugh!

  I’ve been going to therapy for years. Ever since I met Andrew, actually. He suggested I try it out since I have a lot of pent up hostility for my parents and upbringing and shit like that, and then there’s the part about me getting really bored and liking to hit the bottle or the clubs, or often both simultaneously, when the going gets tough. I wasn’t so sure about therapy at first, but all my girlfriends said it was the best idea ever. Plus, Andrew said it was either try therapy or his stupid Scientology shtick, and there was no way in hell I’d be doing that. I mean, did Katie Holmes not teach People magazine readers anything?

  I was going to Dr. Milbanke for the longest time. But then a couple months ago he told me he’d done all he could do for me and thought it best I seek out another therapist—someone with more credentials and experience with situations like mine, so he said. I say I got promoted! Guess I was doing so well that he decided to graduate me to my next level of shrink sessions!

  “We’re looking very nice today, Jackie,” Dr. Pierce says as I take my seat on his plush chaise. I like Dr. Pierce’s choice of furniture much more than Dr. Milbanke’s
, whose was so typical psyche-doctory—cold, sterile, and a deep cherry wood, as if to embody intelligence or seriousness.

  Dr. Pierce’s furniture isn’t necessarily aesthetic and does nothing for the bland eggshell walls that could really use some paintings or frames or sconces or anything to look at when I’m lying about, but the chaise sure is comfortable. Almost too comfortable. Sometimes I feel like I could doze off, and last session I think I actually might have.

  “Thanks,” I say to the good doctor as I settle in to my usual position. I cross my ankles and prop them under a few pillows at one end of the chaise, resting my head at the other end.

  “You and your husband have a nice date planned, I take it?” Dr. Pierce says, taking his own seat across from me. “That’s excellent.”

  “Oh, Dr. Pierce,” I say through a throaty laugh. “Ever since Andrew got back from that stupid meeting in LA he’s been consumed by paperwork. At the office late all the time. No time for the little wife. But,” another laugh, “isn’t that always how it goes?”

  I abruptly pull myself into a seated position, crossing my recently tanned legs. I can still smell the sweet coconut- and mango-scented bronzing cream. “I just felt like getting dressed up a little more than usual,” I say candidly as I look down at myself.

  I’m wearing a shift dress in a canary-yellow, with a pair of sexy black, leather, heeled boots. I first had my stiletto boots on, but even I, who has a penchant for wearing fun and loud clothing, thought it looked a little too Julia-Roberts-Pretty-Woman-esque. That’d no doubt give Dr. Pierce something with which to begin our session, and I don’t have the patience.

  Instead, I opted for the lower heel, and since it’s winter, I slipped on some black Nylons and grabbed my long black and white fur coat Andrew got me from a business trip in Europe. I look like I’m ready for a date, sure, but I long ago gave up on dressing up only for moments when you plan on going out and doing something. I’ve spent many a day doing absolutely nothing around the house, and sweatpants are not befitting to anyone, whatsoever.

  “Feeling down and wanting to uplift your spirits by getting up and dressing up?” Dr. Pierce smiles complacently. “Very nice.”

  “Well,” I bite at the corner of my lip, “not exactly. Although I suppose there’s always something to feel down about, right?” I laugh in a hiccup fashion, then slouch back into the chaise.

  “What’ll it be today?” Dr. Pierce rests his hands relaxedly on his legs. “You start? I offer the topic? Pick up where we left off last week?”

  “No,” I growl, closing my eyes. “I’m so done with talking about how I considered divorce. Please, Dr. Pierce.” I open my eyes and meet his, a firm gaze. “Anything but that, okay? I’m already pissed that Andrew’s back to treating me like a piece of furniture as it is.”

  “A…broken-lamp piece of furniture?” Dr. Pierce’s face now reads of concern.

  “Oh, god, no.”

  Okay, so a few times Andrew and I have had really rough arguments. Arguments that lead to, as Dr. Pierce knows and is inferring, broken furniture. But Andrew would never hurt me. He never has! And I’m not pulling a denial technique to cope. It’s true. We just get a little…heated, if you will, and the furniture can unfortunately take the brunt of those passionate fights.

  “Doctor-patient confidentiality, Jackie,” Dr. Pierce says. His voice and face are pulled into such a serious expression.

  “I promise,” I say honestly. “Do you see any bruises?” I sit up and shrug off my coat, then hold out my arms and twist them over and back around, then around again. “See? No bruises.” I twist my legs. “And none here, either. Just tanning bronzer.”

  “Thank you.” He holds up one hand and looks off to the side. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  I’m about to slip my coat back on but decide to roll it up as best I can into a pillow for my head. I swing my legs back up around and lie down.

  “Actually, Dr. Pierce, a friend of mine, Lara,” I look over to him and he nods, “she recently found out her boyfriend was cheating on her. The bastard.”

  “And you’re concerned because…”

  I scrunch up my brow and jerk my head in his direction. “Because she’s my bloody friend, that’s why!”

  He looks taken aback, so I quickly add, “Sorry. Bridget Jones’s Diary was on TV again.”

  No response.

  “Lara’s my friend, that’s why I’m concerned,” I continue, calming my rattled voice. “And cheating’s just so wrong. So horrible! I could gouge his eyes out for making my friend hurt like this.”

  “What makes you bring this up today?” Dr. Pierce asks calmly, coolly. “Is that what you’d like to discuss? Infidelity?”

  “I bring it up because it’s been bugging the hell out of me.” I rub a soft pinch of coat fur between my fingers. “Infidelity’s been on my mind because of, you know, it being a recent thing with Lara and all.” I let go of the fur and fold my hands awkwardly on my stomach. “Got me thinking about my dad,” I say in a small voice. “About my mom. About affairs.”

  “About your father’s unfaithfulness to your mother. Go on.”

  “About both of them!” I say loudly. I dart my eyes to the doctor across the room. “They’re both lowlife scum who cheated on each other left and right.”

  I swallow the sudden lump that’s beginning to form in my throat. I don’t get too emotional when I talk about my family or home life as a kid, because when you’ve told the same sob story over and over you get pretty immune to the pain and the emotion that usually comes along with talking about angry fathers, philandering mothers, and jailbird brothers.

  Even though my parents divorced when I was young, they’d done enough damage to last two lifetimes. Even after they ditched the piece of paper saying they were husband and wife, they didn’t stop paving a path of destruction for their children, forcing their poisonous lifestyles onto any semblance of normalcy I may have had going for me.

  My brother, Mark, whom I haven’t heard from in something like fifteen years and couldn’t care about less, was in and out of jail since the age of twelve. He’d done it all—anything from vandalizing Mom and Pop shops and petty theft at liquor stores to domestic abuse and drug-dealing. Mark was the last person I could turn to at home.

  Dr. Milbanke had asked me on more than one occasion if my brother had ever sexually molested me or come on to me in any way, and for that matter if my parents had, either. He told me that could have been the reason I was so sexually promiscuous in college and, well, up until I met Andrew.

  I told him no (I was being honest), then said wasn’t that one of the perks of going to college and joining a sorority? You get to meet a lot of guys, have a lot of parties (and tons of fun), and find out what you like and don’t like? We spent another three or four weeks discussing nothing but how I should try to view myself as a person of value offering more than what’s between my legs, and on my chest—though up top I’m barely an A cup, so…

  I guess if you look at it the way Dr. Milbanke put it, I’m really fortunate. I actually knew of some girls in junior high who had dads and uncles who did things that dads and uncles should never do. I’m not sure where all those girls are today, but I know their roads weren’t smooth growing up, and the paths ahead only looked to be bumpier.

  I heard that Lizzie, a girl I knew in seventh grade who grew up over on Hayden Avenue, is living in a trailer park in West Seattle with three bastard kids and her pimp. Of course, it could just be a rumor, but it’s a believable one. My road could’ve been hers, but I was fortunate.

  I was one of the lucky ones, and not just because I didn’t have a perv of a father feel me up. I knew getting into college was one of my only chances to escape the life that fate forced upon me. I applied to the University of Washington, and I actually got in! I was admitted on a probationary status because of my less-than-stellar high school grades, but if I could maintain at least a 2.25 GPA my freshman year then I’d be able to attend college on one of those
“We’re sorry you’re poor and come from a crappy background, so here’s some money for your education. Don’t become your parents, please” scholarships.

  I completed my first year with a 2.75 GPA, became friends with my bestie, Lara, and even joined the Delta Gamma sorority! I pursued my degree in what would be, come my junior year when I finally got around to declaring a major, Communications. (Not much of an academic, but certainly a social butterfly, and with more Facebook friends than anyone I knew on campus, Communications was the most obvious choice.) That first year at U Dub paved the way for the next, when I was crowned Phi Delta Theta Fraternity House Sweetheart (probably because I slept with the house president, but I took the tiara and title, anyway); I legitimately earned my first (and only) ‘A’ in college; and I met the rest of my best friends! Life was definitely much better once college arrived. Not easy, but better.

  Somehow I was able to pull myself up and do my damnedest not to repeat the mistakes my parents made. But nobody’s perfect. Both Dr. Milbanke and Dr. Pierce had warned me time and again how my turning to the bottle when bummed out or reaching for a joint or getting a tad too wild on the dance floor with some skeezy guy was dangerously close to behavior my mother and father might approve of.

  “This is why we’re doing these sessions together, Jackie,” Dr. Pierce says after I spend what feels like an hour ranting about how unjustly my parents treated their children. “You’re leaps and bounds ahead of the game just by acknowledging that their lifestyle—what they put you and your brother through—was wrong, damaging, and is not the path for you. You can fight it. You don’t have to follow in their footsteps.”

  “Who says I’m following in their footsteps, Doctor?” I shoot out, more rudely than intended.

  “I’m not saying you are, Jackie,” he says with a soothing calmness. “I’m saying it’s good that you recognize their problem and that such a lifestyle is not for you.” He raises both hands. “You’ve risen above this. Let’s stay up there.”