Now Tanya turns to Eitan. There’s a glob of sour cream on his chin. “You’ve got—” she says, pointing. They have an agreement: they will never not tell each other about food on their mouths.
He wipes it away.
“When I found out I was pregnant,” Tanya says, “the first thing I thought was that I wanted an abortion.”
Eitan swallows and looks at her, waits for her to continue.
“I came home ready to tell you that I was getting one. I walked in the door expecting to say, Eitan, I’m pregnant and I need to get this nipped in the bud, stat.” She pauses. “But you seemed so happy when I told you I was pregnant, like happier than I’d ever seen you. It made me feel terrible.”
“I was happy,” Eitan says hesitantly.
“I know.”
“Do you still want an abortion?” he asks. There’s worry in his eyes, though he doesn’t look especially surprised.
“Sometimes,” says Tanya. “When I was with my family I did. It seemed like having a baby was just going to make me more tied to them. Like, by turning into a mother, I might start to become more like my own. But then I came home today and saw you, and even though I kind of wanted to murder you, I also had this feeling, like, I can’t wait to have a family with him.”
“I know your mom has issues, Tanya, but she had you, and you turned out pretty fucking incredible.”
Tanya suppresses a smile before flashing him a real one. “Valid point.”
“Tanya, I don’t want to have a baby that you don’t really want to have.”
“I do want to have a baby,” she says. “I just think it’s going to be a lot harder than either of us realize.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“It has the potential to tear us apart.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it happens all the time, Eitan. All the time.”
“I don’t know,” Eitan says. “I think it also has the potential to be the best thing we’ve ever done.”
On the bus ride back to Northampton, Nessa texts Henry. Hey there, she writes. Getting back to Noho tonight. What are you up to?
He responds immediately, which fills her with a relief so huge and sweeping that it embarrasses her. She can’t bear the thought of spending the night alone. What time? he writes.
My bus gets in at 7.
I’ll pick you up.
Cool, she writes back.
She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes.
She’s still vibrating from her visit to Eddie’s house, unsure of what to do with it. She’d expected to leave his house with something useful she might bring back to Tanya, but now, sitting on the bus, she wonders what that possibly could have been. An explanation? An apology? A corpse? She understands now that her visit to Eddie’s house is not something that Tanya will ever have any interest in hearing about.
In the same way that Dan started out as a fantasy inside Nessa’s mind, he will end with her, too. A sick, old man—malodorous and obscene, in a bed that she’d willed to life. This time she’ll leave her sister out of it.
* * *
—
WHEN NESSA’S BUS pulls into the depot, Henry is already there, sitting on the curb in front of her car, smoking a cigarette. He’s hunched over, neck bent, examining something on the sidewalk.
“Hey,” she says as she approaches him.
He looks up, smiles. Puts out his cigarette and flicks it on the ground, stands, reaches out to take her bag.
“Thanks.” She passes it over to him.
“No problem.” He hands her the car keys.
On the ride home they don’t talk much, but Henry keeps his hand on her knee while she drives. When “Beast of Burden” comes on the radio, he turns the volume up and smiles. He seems more relaxed than usual.
When they get back to her house, Nessa unlocks the door and he follows her inside. Her stomach feels light and fluttery, knowing that soon she’ll be pressed up against Henry in bed.
“Do you want some water?” she asks as they enter the apartment.
“Sure.”
She fills two glasses in the sink, watching from the kitchen as Henry drops her bag in the middle of the living room. He’s wearing jeans and a maroon-colored button-up shirt. She’s never seen him in a button-up shirt before and she wonders if he dressed up for her.
She joins him in the living room. “Here,” she says, handing him a cup.
They both sip, watching one another, not breaking eye contact, even through the glass.
“So how was the trip?” he asks.
“Awful.”
He bows his head then, and kisses her lightly on the lips. They stand, embracing. Nessa waits for him to ask her why, but he remains quiet.
“My stepfather strangled my mother,” she says into his shoulder, and she feels a tinge of anticipation in the silence afterward. She wants a reaction.
He steps back. “Jesus. Why?”
Nessa looks up at him. “Does it matter why?”
“I guess not,” he says. “Sorry that happened.”
“Yeah. My sister and I went with her to the emergency room.”
“Is she okay?”
“Sort of. I mean, she is now.”
“People suck.”
“That’s kind of an understatement.” Nessa is disappointed in his response. She wishes she could start crying, but she doesn’t feel sad enough to cry. All she feels is restless and pissed off and a little bit aroused.
“You want to lie down?” he asks, and she nods into his shoulder.
Once in the bedroom he begins to kiss her for real—his mouth tastes like whatever he had for dinner and cigarettes—and he pulls off her shirt.
“Wait,” she says, and she goes over to the windows in her bra to close the blinds. When she turns back around he’s standing naked by the bed, a sheepish smile on his face. She’s seen him without clothes a number of times, but this time she’s struck by his imperfections. His stomach is round and soft, a middle-aged man’s belly, and his erection peeks out from underneath. His shoulders are pulled forward from years of poor posture.
He strides toward her then, a hungry expression on his face. “Can you take this off?” he says, snapping her bra strap. His breath is bad and she wonders how he’d react if she were to say so.
She reaches behind her back and unhooks her bra, lets it drop to the floor. She almost pities him, watching him watch her. He seems mesmerized by her body.
They begin to kiss again and she reaches down and holds his penis, feeling it swell inside her grip.
He likes this and thrusts himself forward so he’s pressed up against her stomach. Then his hands are all over her—on her chest and her rib cage, reaching behind her to grab her ass. She breathes hard in his ear, egging him on. She no longer knows if she’s enjoying him, or if she’s enjoying putting on a show for him, and after several minutes she decides that it doesn’t matter what she’s enjoying—only that it feels unbelievably good.
She allows him to guide her to the bed, his hands firmly pushing her backwards until she falls back onto the mattress. He climbs on top of her and roughly begins to touch her, forcing two fingers inside her vagina. He paws at her clit the way you might try to scrub a stain out of a couch cushion.
It hurts, but she doesn’t want to throw him off by saying so—he looks so excited, almost euphoric. She feels a little sorry for him; he has no idea how the female body works.
“How many girls have you slept with?” she asks, and when he smiles down at her, triumphant, she realizes he’s taken the question as a compliment.
“Why do you want to know?” he asks.
She runs a finger down the inside of his thigh. “I just do.”
“I’ve lost count,” he says. “Forty, maybe fifty.”
Nessa nods
. It’s more than she expected, and for some reason this turns her on.
“How many dudes have you fucked?” he asks, smiling.
“Twenty-seven,” she answers honestly. “Counting you.”
“Lucky twenty-seven.” He drops himself onto her again, kissing her mouth and neck.
“Did you sleep with anyone while I was gone?” she asks.
He pushes himself up and looks at her strangely. “No. Did you?”
“No. I was with my family the whole time.” She pauses. “Would you have been mad if I did?”
He shrugs, and then he seems to consider it. “I mean, it wouldn’t have made me happy, but I wouldn’t have been mad at you.”
She nods and waits for him to ask her the same question, but he doesn’t.
* * *
—
IT’S AFTERWARD, when they’re lying in bed together, that her pity for Henry fades and affection takes its place. He seems calm, his eyes half-closed, running his hand up and down her arm.
“Have you ever gotten into a fight?” she asks. “Like, a physical fight?”
He opens one eye, glancing sideways at her. “A few.”
“Like when?”
“In tenth grade I punched this guy, Adam Morris, in the face for calling me a faggot.”
“Then what happened?”
“He punched me back. It broke out into this awesome fight in the cafeteria. We both got suspended.” He lets out a loud, boyish laugh. “Have you?”
“I almost did today.”
Henry grins. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“What’d you do?”
“I came close to attacking an old man,” she says, and when Henry starts to laugh again, she says, “Really.”
“Why?”
Nessa shrugs and leans back onto the pillow, closes her eyes. She’s never told anyone about Dan. She’s never felt it was her secret to tell. In the moment, though, she desperately wants to tell Henry. She wants to see his reaction—anyone’s reaction really. She has the feeling it will surprise him—maybe even impress him. On the other hand, she’s worried he might just continue to laugh, think of it as one big joke.
Then, surprisingly, Henry kisses her nose, and Nessa opens her eyes.
He’s staring unabashedly at her. She wonders if Henry is beginning to fall in love with her; the thought makes her chest feel warm and full. She decides that she’ll tell him about Dan, about what happened fourteen years ago, and about what happened earlier that day. It’s time to tell someone.
Before she can speak he smiles and says, “You’re growing a zit.”
“What?”
“Right there.” He touches her face. “On your cheek.”
“Um.”
“Can I pop it?”
“Are you serious?”
“Please?”
“No.” She throws the covers off and goes into the bathroom.
Nessa slams the door, suddenly on the verge of tears. She leans into the mirror and examines the zit, then glances down at her nakedness. Her body is red and splotchy from sex, almost allergic looking.
When she goes back into the bedroom, Henry is still in the same position on her bed.
“Why would you say that?” she demands.
He looks up at her. “Say what? That you have a zit?”
“Yes.” She pauses. “It’s rude. You’re rude.”
He looks taken aback. “Sorry,” he says. “I guess I just feel comfortable around you.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Come here.” He pats the bed next to him.
“Why?”
“Because.”
Begrudgingly, she walks over to the bed and climbs in without looking at him. She leaves a foot of space between them and crosses her arms over her chest. “Just because you feel comfortable with me doesn’t mean you can pop my zits.” She’s aware of how bratty she sounds, and she realizes that despite her anger, she’s flirting with him.
“You can pop mine,” he says.
She glances over.
He flips onto his stomach and reaches over his shoulder to swat at his back. “Right there,” he says. “See it?”
She leans over and looks on his shoulder blade where there’s a bulging whitehead. “I see it.”
“Wanna pop that bad boy?”
“You’re gross.”
“But you want to, right?”
Despite herself, she laughs a little. “Kinda.”
“Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t mean you can pop mine.”
“Understood.”
“Fine. Here goes.” With her fingertips, she pushes the surrounding skin and watches the pus form into a stiff white bead. After a few seconds, it explodes with a satisfying pop. “There you go,” she says.
“It felt good, right?”
“You’re a weirdo.”
“Admit it—it felt good.”
“It felt disgusting,” she says, but she moves closer to him in bed, and lets her bare feet brush his.
Dr. Louis Keller is shorter than both Lorraine and Jesse, with fuzzy gray hair sprouting out from the crown of his head and from his ears. He’s wearing a short-sleeved button-up shirt and corduroys, more casual than Lorraine expected a therapist to dress, and smudged glasses, magnifying watery blue eyes.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Dr. Keller,” Jesse says, shaking the man’s hand.
“Lou,” the therapist says warmly. “Please, call me Lou.”
Lorraine is relieved. She likes Lou already.
He leads them into his office and tells them to sit wherever they feel comfortable. There are two matching armchairs, both faded green, and an ugly-looking polyester couch. Jesse, who’s holding Lorraine’s hand, leads them to the couch. They sit, and Lou settles across from them in one of the chairs.
“Jesse,” Lou says, “I know we spoke a little over the phone about what’s been going on with you and Lorraine, but now that we’re all here, the three of us, why don’t we start over? You can both tell me why it is you’re here today. And take your time. Know that we won’t get to everything today—not even close to everything—and that’s okay. Therapy is a process, and today is just the very beginning.” He smiles at Lorraine. “Lorraine, would you like to start?”
Lorraine glances over at Jesse, who squeezes her hand and nods.
“We’ve been fighting a lot recently,” Lorraine says. “We’ve always had our ups and downs, but lately there’s been a lot of downs. We . . . separated . . . last weekend. That was when Jesse called to set up the appointment. Things got really bad, but we decided we wanted to work it out. We’ve been together for sixteen years and married for ten.”
Lou nods. “That’s a long time.”
“Yes,” Lorraine says. “We love each other a lot.”
“I can see that.”
“I was thinking about this, Dr. Keller,” Jesse says. “And I actually think a lot of our issues stem from loving each other so much—maybe too much. I’ve never cared more for anyone, and sometimes it overwhelms me. I just don’t want to lose Lorrie. We wanted to come to therapy because we want to do everything in our power to make our marriage work. Lorrie’s right, we’ve had our ups and downs, but I think that’s part of any relationship, right? In my opinion, what it comes down to is how a couple manages those downs. That’s where we’ve run into trouble. Me especially.” Jesse is leaning forward with his hands on his knees in a way that reminds Lorraine of a sports huddle. “But coming to therapy,” he goes on. “That was the healthy thing to do for both of us. So that’s why we’re here.”
Lou nods and leans back in his seat. He isn’t taking notes or even holding a pen and paper. “Great,” Lou says. “Jesse, I think you’re absolutely right that
managing those downs, whether it be misunderstandings or an argument, or if one partner in the couple is having a rough time, is absolutely crucial. Lorraine, you mentioned that you and Jesse separated last weekend. Can you tell me more about that separation, and what led up to it?”
“Um, well, I applied for a restraining order.”
Beside her Jesse stiffens.
“You did,” Lou says, and she can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement.
“I didn’t end up going through with it,” Lorraine says.
“You should probably mention it was your daughter who convinced you to apply for the restraining order,” Jesse says. “Your daughter who’s always had it out for me, for whatever reason.” He’s looking closely at Lou while he says it.
“That’s true,” Lorraine says. “My daughter Tanya kind of talked me into it.”
“Well, before we get to the order, why don’t you tell me about what led up to it?” Lou looks at Lorraine.
“There was an incident in the middle of the night, when my daughters were home.”
“That sounds like that’s a good place to start,” Lou says. “What happened?”
So Lorraine tells Lou about the conversation she’d had with Nessa and Tanya out on the porch that Jesse had overheard. She describes Jesse’s rage and jealousy when he’d confronted her later that night after her daughters had gone to bed. She tells Lou that Jesse had hurled a bottle of soap across the room—but she does not say that he poured the soap all over her so that it had spilled into her face and eyes. At the point in the story where Jesse put his hands around her neck, Lorraine skips over this detail, telling herself that she’ll arrive at it later; that it’s only fair to let Jesse talk first, before saying everything—and especially that.
“He got really, really angry at me when he heard me talking about him. And my ex-husband,” she says.
“Angry how?” Lou asks.
She looks down into her lap where her and Jesse’s hands are clasped together.
“I got jealous,” Jesse blurts out. “It was my own insecurity, my fault. I blew it out of proportion. I overreacted and lost control. It’s something that I’d really like to work on. Instead of yelling and exploding, learning how to step back and talk calmly about my problems. It’s something that I need help with.” He leans forward again and lowers his voice. “My father cheated on my mother. I was exposed to my parents’ issues at an early age. I don’t think I’ve fully appreciated how that’s affected me until now. He cheated on her—my father did—for their entire marriage. With many different women.” He pauses then, as though he expects Lou to say something, but Lou just nods.
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