The Perfect Stranger

by Marin Montgomery

  Drained, she pulls the duvet over her head, burrowing underneath the heavy fabric. Feeling like a failure and unloved, she noticed Grant didn’t reach out to her last night, and his absence even through social media or the phone punches her in the gut.

  And Lucy.

  What was she going to do about her conniving, two-faced best friend?

  She’ll have to call her later, see when they can get together. She doesn’t want to confront her over the phone, she wants to see Lucy in person, watch her facial reactions, see what excuse she has for running off with her beloved handbag.

  And the more pressing question - what did she do with it?

  With a loud groan, she shoves her face into the pillow and goes back to sleep, hoping that when she wakes up, she will have clarity.

  28

  Stella

  A shrill sound wrenches Stella from her deep slumber, and she pauses a moment in bewilderment, unaware of her surroundings or the time.

  At first she assumes it’s people on the beach, using blow horns or listening to music.

  It chimes again.

  Flicking a wrist towards the clock on the bedside table, she knocks it on its side.

  Blinking a few times, she sees the time.

  Three fifty-seven.

  That can't be right.

  Stella tussles with her bed sheets, tripping over a pillow in her haste to get up. “Coming,” she hollers, though she knows there’s no way the visitor will be able to hear her.

  Her conversation with Grant comes echoing back.

  House call. Dr. Sabin. Friday.

  She pulls a brush through her rat's nest, brushing her teeth with her finger as she spits out the remnants of toothpaste. Stella doesn't want Dr. Sabin to think she’s lost touch with reality or was clinically depressed, even though she’s dealt with periods in time where she is.

  Right now, she feels this is situational, and all a big misunderstanding.

  She doesn't want him to think she needs hospitalization or is about to go off the deep end.

  Instead of abandoning the men's shirt she's wearing, she throws a pair of jeans on and tries to tie up the bottom of the long hem so it looks less frumpy. She replaces her typical house slippers with real shoes, a pair of black leather thong sandals.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, she snatches the door open.

  Breathless, she greets him. “Dr. Sabin.”

  He’s not dressed like a psychiatrist, and that’s one of the most refreshing things about him. He’s wearing a pair of Birkenstocks with his jeans, and his collared button down has the sleeves rolled partially up. The necklace he always wears, one of a patron saint, is nuzzled in his chest hair.

  “Stella.” He reaches for her hands, holding them in his larger palms for a moment. “My, my, Stella. Your hands are freezing.”

  “Sorry, my circulation sucks.” She ushers him in. “Would you like some tea or coffee? That’s usually my cure for warming up my hands - a big mug of something hot.”

  “Sure. Green tea. If you have something with chamomile or something with lemon or ginger.”

  “Perfect. Let me start the kettle.” She busies herself in the kitchen, filling the metal teapot with water before setting it on the burner to boil.

  Dr. Sabin’s eyeing her with curiosity, watching her every movement like a hawk. He can probably see the way her hands tremble and how lethargic she is.

  They make small talk about his family - him and his wife are avid swimmers. He has three sons, all graduated cum laude from elite universities. Stella makes sure to inquire about his family and his hobbies. After the tea’s steeped, she pours them both mugs and directs him to the living room.

  “Such a beautiful house,” he muses, “and I must tell you, decorated so tastefully. You always did have a good eye for color and lighting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And congratulations are in order.” He reaches his tea out carefully to clink her mug. “I heard from your adoring husband you’ve been approached by some major department stores for your makeup line. What aspirations you have. I couldn’t be prouder.”

  “I appreciate the compliment. I’m very excited, but nervous.” She gives him a small smile. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

  “Speaking of pressure, do you feel it’s contributing to what’s going on?” He shifts his knee across his leg. “I must say I’m relieved Grant called me. You know I want to be of help.”

  “I’m not really sure what’s going on or what’s been shared.” She swallows a sip of tea, the too-hot liquid burring down her throat. “What exactly did he say?”

  “Not much. Obviously you and I have a doctor-client privilege. He did request I make a house visit, said you’ve been having trouble leaving lately.” Curious, he adds, “He made sure you did keep your appointment a couple weeks ago.”

  “It’s not like it was before, I promise.”

  Dr. Sabin eyes her, not unkindly. “He mentioned that you two have had some spats recently, your marriage isn’t in a good state, and he wants to know how to help with whatever issues are going on.”

  “Shouldn’t he be here for that?”

  “I counsel you, Stella. If you both want to do couples therapy, I’d refer you out for that since you and I already have a relationship established. I can’t be neutral if I’ve already been privy to your side of everything. It takes away my ability to be objective.”

  He leans forward. “Look, Stella, I think the point of Grant reaching out is because he cares about you.”

  She murmurs, “He has a funny way of showing it.”

  “What he did mention is that there have been some issues with trust. Deep-seated issues that have become more prevalent in the relationship. Would you say that’s a fair statement?”

  “Yes.”

  “Accusations of cheating?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But in our last visit, you told me about your other relationship.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you feel it’s shifted, that he's the one having an affair?”

  “All signs point to it.”

  He rubs the bridge of his nose where his glasses rest. “I’m here for whatever you need. To chat, to discuss medication options, treatment, we could even lay out a plan for cognitive behavioral therapy.”

  “I need my husband back,” she whispers.

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “So the weekend you have to yourself. How do you feel about it?”

  “Unsettled.”

  Gently, he asks, “Are you worried about harming yourself? How have your impulses been? Are there stimuli that you find drawing you in?”

  “God, no, to harming myself.” Stella jerks back against the couch cushion harder than she anticipated. “I’m just sad about my marriage and where we’re at.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Dr. Sabin, how can I be sure he hasn’t cheated?”

  “Do you trust him?”

  Pointedly, she says, “You’re answering my question with your own question.”

  “I know.” He has the intelligence to put a coaster under his mug. “But it’s never a black and white answer.” He notices her frustration in the way she crosses her arms. “Take for example, the definition. What’s your definition of cheating? Some say emotional, some say physical, some say any type of contact, whether it be sexual in nature.”

  “Now you’re ripping apart my question.”

  “Yes, because I can’t define cheating in the boundaries of your relationship. Only you can. The more important question is: do you trust your husband?”

  “I used to.”

  “What changed?”

  “He lost weight, started caring about his appearance, his clothes, how others perceive him.”

  “Was he still emotionally and physically available to you?”

  “For a while, yes, then it spiraled out of control.”

  “Based on your insecurities
?”

  Sighing, she chews on her lower lip. “No, based on the fact that I watched him turn into someone else completely. Suddenly he didn’t take the same amount of interest as I did.”

  “Have you found anything to suggest he cheated?”

  “Yes, the scent of women’s perfume in his car, lingerie, lipstick in his overnight bag. All that belonged to someone else.”

  “If he did cheat, how would you feel?”

  She contemplates this for a moment, closing her eyes. “Truthfully, relieved. I’d feel relieved that it wasn’t all in my head. That my intuition was spot on.”

  “Are you more sensitive to him cheating?” Dr. Sabin asks her point-blank. “Do you feel like you’re worried that something from your past is haunting you and you're experiencing transference?”

  “You mean like redirecting my feelings onto him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve thought about that. But I’ve considered the circumstances.”

  “Did Grant find out about your affair?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I think,” Dr. Sabin crosses a leg over his knee, “that people are aware of their actions in the moment and if your partner starts displaying those same symptoms, it’s easy to correlate that with cheating.”

  “I was better at it.”

  “Cheating?”

  “Not getting caught. He’s made some dumb mistakes, like leaving her lipstick in his travel case.”

  “Had he been on any trips?”

  “Not that I can recall, but he could’ve taken her to a local hotel. And this week he’s on a business trip and is punishing me with no contact.”

  “I suggested that.”

  “That he ignore me?” Stella grimaces. “Thanks a lot, Dr. Sabin. Usually you don’t prescribe to the cold shoulder.”

  “Not for the reason you’re presuming.”

  She eyes him suspiciously.

  “You need space. Both of you. If you can’t get past this inkling he’s cheating and he can't be the whipping boy anymore, it’ll do you more good than harm to have a few days to reset your buttons. Resenting him for being gone and having arguments when he’s across the country isn’t going to help, it’ll be detrimental.”

  Stella takes a moment to consider his opinion. “You’re right that we can’t seem to have a conversation that isn’t tense or filled with passive-aggressive comments.”

  “It’s the best for both of you. Obviously if you have an emergency, contact him, but if not, I want you to spend the weekend focused on meditation and yoga.”

  “And what about a treatment plan?”

  “You need medication, Stella. The question is, will you take it?”

  She tugs at the unknown shirt on her body. “I know I need to...”

  “For BPD, we recommend a combination of therapy and meds. Dialectical behavioral therapy is one course of treatment and is primarily about mindfulness, resisting urges, and creating a safe space for you to control your emotions in a positive manner.”

  “And medication wise?

  “I would first like to try a mood stabilizer like carbamazepine and an anti-psychotic like clozapine. I want to warn you that these drugs cannot be used in conjunction with alcohol or other drugs.”

  Stella sighs, knowing she needs to do something. “I feel on edge,” she admits, “but I’m also stressed about not only my career but my marriage. I always thought Grant would be my rock, and now he’s like the rolling moss that's gaining ground.”

  “And now you’re missing him and wearing his shirt, I see.” Rueful, Stella gives him a small smile but doesn’t admit it’s not her husband’s.

  “How did your affair end, Stella? Was it sudden or did it just fizzle out?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I want to know what you’re going to do next.”

  “In terms of?”

  Dr. Sabin removes his glasses, setting them on the raffia coffee table. “If you think Grant’s cheating, what will be the final sign or when will you give up the notion?”

  “As soon as I don't feel like he’s stabbing me in the back anymore.”

  “Do you feel like you did that to him? Are there feelings of guilt or remorse?”

  Stella purses her lips. “I regret having that type of intimacy with someone else. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t thrilling, and fun, and something to look forward to.”

  “Was it another impulse?” Dr. Sabin questions. “Would you consider it a deviation?”

  “Yes. I felt sexy and free. There’s something captivating about holding the attention of not one but two men.”

  “Was it the thrill?”

  “Of course. Waiting to see how long I could juggle it, if I'd get caught, how good I could be at.”

  He leans forward, studying her. “And then you dropped the ball?”

  “No, he did. He dropped me.” Her face scrunches up as the rejection and hurt wash over her.

  “Was there a reason?”

  “He has his own wife and kids. Said it was selfish of us to continue.”

  “How did you react?”

  “I was hurt,” Stella touches her wrists, tracing the pain. “I cried myself to sleep for weeks. I'd go in the guest room in the middle of the night and just bawl my eyes out. I’d turn the television on to cover the sound of my tears. Grant caught me sobbing one night, and I lied and said I’d watched a romantic comedy. The Notebook, is what I claimed.”

  “My wife’s made me watch that at least a dozen times.” Dr. Sabin says, trying to lighten the mood.

  Leaning back to give her some space, he continues, “Do you think Grant ever felt the loss of you?”

  “In what way? I was still present. We never went on overnight trips or spent nights together. Looking back, I guess it was stupid.”

  “What was?”

  “To put so much value on such little time spent.”

  “In terms of loss, I mean in the sense that Grant’s intuition might've honed in on the fact that you might’ve been available physically, but not emotionally.”

  “No,” Stella picks at a hangnail, “he never said anything, never asked. I deleted my texts, the man’s name was saved under a woman's name, and we were careful to meet in public, never at each other’s houses.”

  “Did he cut you off cold?”

  “No. He told me in person. But it was out of the left field. It was an abrupt stop to something so passionate, but he promised me his wife didn't know and he wouldn’t tell her.” She brings her thumb to her mouth, sucking a droplet of blood.

  “Did you secretly want her to find out?”

  “Yes.”

  Tilting his head, he asks, “How come?”

  “Because I hated sharing him.”

  “How do you think she would’ve felt?”

  “Shitty,” Stella says confidently, “because I felt the same.”

  “You just wanted some fun, the feeling of a new crush?”

  “Exactly, the way you feel when you’re falling in love. The excitement, the attachment, the chemistry.” Pausing, she gazes at him with somber eyes. “So what do I do?”

  “You decide if you can stay married knowing that Grant feels like he’s being persecuted for something he did or didn’t do, you can separate for a time and see if this is what you want either way, you can divorce, or you can get therapy and make sure you're at peace with whatever you decide.”

  “Okay, I’ll do some thinking this weekend.”

  “Good. I suggest you do.”

  “And Dr. Sabin? I’m having trouble sleeping. Is there anything I can take? I just want to feel well-rested, and then I’m sure a lot of these anxious feelings will subside.”

  “Okay, I’ll write you a script for a sleeping pill. Don't drink on it, don’t smoke weed, take pills, or mix it with some other cocktail. That goes for all the meds.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  “Next week?”

 
“How about Wednesday?"

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. You all right to come to my office?”

  “Yes, see you then.”

  She walks Dr. Sabin to the door, his tall frame ducking as he walks to his Toyota Camry. Waving, she stands there, watching him back out of the drive, and then she sits down, head in her hands, her mind drifting back to her own affair.

  Looking at her cell, before she knows it, Stella dials him again, an overpowering loneliness crippling her ability to breathe. Wanting nothing more than to talk to him, a male voice answers, and the familiar sound feels like a slap in the face.

  There’s a woman in the background, and she hears the sounds of a family.

  Feeling nauseous, she hits the end button and runs to the bathroom, heaving over the porcelain toilet.

  29

  Stella

  After she runs to the pharmacy to fill her prescription, Stella grabs a couple bottles of wine. Remembering what Dr. Sabin said about drinking and pills, she teeters between putting them in the cart and placing them back on the shelf.

  Tapping her fingers against the cold metal in thought, she decides they’re worthwhile to have when she’s not taking the sleeping pills. If she’s having a drinking night, she can still imbibe alcohol and forgo the medication.

  By the time she walks in the door of her house, it’s past 8pm.

  When she sinks down onto the couch to contemplate what she wants for dinner, she notices a pair of glasses on the coffee table next to the coaster.

  Picking the tortoise shell frames up, she realizes Dr. Sabin forgot them. They look prescription and are definitely not for show. Stella dials his cell but gets his voicemail. She leaves him a message about picking them up over the weekend.

  There was a chill when she walked in the house, the air tinged with the smell of rain. She shudders, rubbing her shoulders with her arms as the goosebumps rise on her flesh. Storm clouds are disguised by the darkness, but she can almost taste the scent of a storm. It’s hard for her to describe the fragrance, except to compare it to a mixture of heat, water, and electricity.