Not Easily Broken

by T. D. Jakes

  And still, at least four times during the day, he’d dialed all but the last digit of Julie’s cell phone number before making himself clear the screen and put the phone back in his pocket.

  What was wrong with him? In his head, there was no question about the best course of action. Clarice was his wife, the woman he’d promised in front of God and everybody else to love, honor, and cherish until death. That wasn’t something you just walked away from. Keeping his marriage together was the hundred-percent right thing to do.

  And then he thought about the last few months and years, about his growing sense that nothing he did ever quite measured up to whatever standard Clarice was using. The success of his business, his desire to have children, his ability and wish to care for her. None of it registered with her, it seemed.

  He shook his head. That kind of thinking wasn’t going to get him anywhere except in trouble. He shoveled a bite of casserole into his mouth and chased it with a gulp of tea. To Dave, the food tasted about like yesterday’s oatmeal, but he knew if he didn’t eat, he’d get sick or something. And he was going to need his strength to keep it together while he and Clarice figured out if they could keep it together.

  Clarice rolled over and looked at the alarm clock: seven o’clock. What she wanted to do was become unconscious again so she could elude the burden of getting through another day of dragging around all the uncertainties of her life. But she’d gleaned enough information from the Internet to know what she had to do instead was keep moving. “Depression is like a fungus,” one of the Web sites had said. “It grows best in dark, unused places. Get out there and force yourself back into life. Exercise. Go to work as much as you can. Taking just a few proactive steps can build a foundation for coping and recovering.”

  All right, all right. Enough with the morning sermon. I’m getting up, so lay off me . . .

  David was already gone. He’d slept next to her, but he might as well have been in the next county for all the good they did each other. It was as if there were an invisible divider in the center of their king-size bed, one that neither of them had apparently tried to cross. The middle third of the bed looked like nobody had touched it. The covers and sheets were disturbed only on the edges where she and David had been. That was for the best, Clarice told herself. Any attempt at lovemaking, based on how they both felt right now, was likely to be a disaster, and liable to do more harm than good.

  Clarice sat up and reached for her cane leaning against the nightstand. She pushed herself upright and trudged to the bathroom. Then she went to her closet and changed into some fairly ratty-looking shorts and a tank top to do her morning PT.

  She stretched on her back and extended her right leg, then did several reps of the lifting exercises Julie had showed her. As she did, she thought about Julie. She wondered what it had been like for David to tell her what he told her. She wondered if Julie really had designs on David’s affections, or if she’d just gotten caught up in something that got away from her. She considered what she knew of Julie’s personality and tried to work out in her mind what the experience with Julie had been like for her husband. And she tried to shove away the guilt that came when she faced the realization that David had needs his own wife wasn’t meeting . . . needs Julie was evidently prepared to fulfill.

  She stood up and walked to the kitchen counter to do her kicks and bends, gingerly putting a little more weight on her right leg as she went. She still used the cane at work and around the house, but since the orthopedist had rated her “weight-bearing as tolerated,” Clarice reasoned it was a good idea to see if she couldn’t tolerate a little more. So far, there was no pain or swelling. Her biggest trouble was with her toes, as Julie had rightly predicted. They were still a little too weak from disuse to give her secure balance when she walked. She meant to keep working on that, though.

  The picture came to her then, as it did multiple times each day—the picture she tried to keep out of her mind but at the same time felt perversely drawn to, like a rat hypnotized by a snake: the picture of what David and Julie were like together. She imagined them in a restaurant, talking and laughing. She thought about them strolling along a shaded street, holding hands. She imagined them in bed together, David’s fingers twined in her hair, David’s mouth on hers, David’s dark hand gliding along the curves of her white body.

  She shook her head, trying to physically fling the hated image away from her. It didn’t happen! David was telling the truth about that, and you know it. Quit making things worse than they already are.

  She almost wished David had gone out and had a one-night stand somewhere. Clarice thought that would be easier to deal with, in some ways, than the knowledge that another woman had touched her husband’s heart. She finished her exercises and got into the shower. She had some clients coming in this morning, and she wanted to get to work a little early to do some prep. Michelle had laid out their files on her desk yesterday afternoon.

  She also wanted to call one or two of the counselors Pastor Wilkes had recommended. Clarice knew that any credible counseling was likely to be a two-edged sword. As she’d said to David, there was plenty of blame on both sides. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing herself in the mirror the counselor would probably hold up. But it’s the only way. If they didn’t get started, things would just get worse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Clarice waited on hold, going over the list of questions she’d jotted down. She felt a little nervous, but she kept telling herself that was a good sign; she’d be more alert that way.

  “This is Carmen.”

  The voice was quiet and well-modulated, musical almost. Carmen McAtee could’ve had a career in radio. Or with one of those 900-number phone places. Clarice immediately wished she hadn’t had that thought.

  “Yes, I’m Clarice Johnson, Dr. McAtee, and—”

  “Please. Call me Carmen.”

  “Well, all right then, Carmen. I was referred to you by my minister, G. A. Wilkes.”

  “Oh, Gary! Yes, we’ve known each other since seminary.”

  So that’s what the “G” stands for.

  “How can I help you, Clarice?”

  “Well, I think—that is, my husband and I—we’re in need of some . . .”

  “Marriage counseling?”

  “Yes. Something like that.” Clarice felt as if she’d just admitted to being a shoplifter.

  “Clarice, I am a family practitioner, you know. Just about a hundred percent of the people who call me are wanting help in some personal area of life. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

  “Thank you. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course not. I’ve still got about ten minutes before my next client comes in, so fire away.”

  Clarice ran down her list, asking about insurance, confidentiality, privacy, length of sessions, scheduling, and everything else on her list. And then she took a deep breath and asked a question that wasn’t on her list, but the only thing she’d been able to think about.

  “Carmen, what sort of chance do we have? I mean, I know you haven’t met David or me, but we’re both pretty decent people. I know I want to save our marriage, and I think he wants the same thing. Do people work these things out?”

  After a few seconds of silence that gave Clarice ample opportunity to regret allowing such childish vulnerability to show to a perfect stranger, Carmen said, “Well, of course, as you say, I don’t know either of you, nor do I know anything about your situation. But to answer your last question, I can say absolutely yes, people do work these things out . . . when there is a commitment on both sides to keep doing the hard work of making the needed changes.”

  Of course, Clarice. What else did you think she was going to say?

  “As far as what kind of chance you and—David, is that your husband’s name?”

  “Yes, David.”

  “You’ve got the same chance as anybody who walks into my office or any other counselor’s. You pretty much get out of counselin
g what you put into it, Clarice. And that part’s not up to me. I can guide you, I can make suggestions, I can offer some fairly informed opinions, and I can referee if I need to, but I can’t fix your marriage. Whatever may be wrong with it, the fixing is up to you and David. And frankly, you should find that comforting.”

  “Yes. I see. Well, uh . . . do you have any openings?”

  “Actually, I don’t know. I’ll have to pass you back to Karen for that information. Would you like me to do that?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind.” Clarice had a good feeling about Carmen McAtee.

  Dave opened the door for Clarice, then followed her inside. The counselor’s offices were at the end of a carpeted hallway on the fifth floor of one of the older downtown buildings. Walking up to the door, Dave felt the same way he used to feel when he’d been sent to the principal’s office in elementary school. Clarice was a woman and the counselor was a woman. The way he figured it, that pretty much meant he was in trouble.

  But this was the place Clarice had picked, and he’d told her he’d go wherever she said. Well, here he was. The reception area was decorated in soft blues, greens, and tans, with a little white tossed in for accent. The chairs were all big and overstuffed, and Dave was pretty sure he was catching whiffs of one of the aroma-therapy air fresheners that were always being advertised in his supplier catalogs. Dave was instantly suspicious of any place that worked so hard to get you relaxed. Clarice went to the desk and the receptionist handed her a clipboard with about a quarter-inch of paper on it. She said they’d need to fill out all the forms and hand them back in. No wonder she’d told them to get here a half hour early.

  They sat in a couple of the chairs and Clarice started working on the forms. Every now and then she’d ask a question that made Dave have to dig in his wallet: Social Security numbers, insurance plan carrier, that sort of stuff.

  While Clarice wrote, Dave looked around. Some of the art on the walls was vaguely African, in a kind of homogenized, politically correct way. There were lots of stylized scenes of families. All done in tasteful, low-stress colors, of course; that was the politically correct part. Clear plastic racks on the counter held pamphlets with titles like “Family Stress: Some Practical Solutions” and “Depression: How to Recognize It and What to Do About It.” A framed certificate proclaimed Alicia Carmen McAtee, PhD, a member in good standing of the American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy. Dave figured that had to be a good thing.

  Clarice handed him the clipboard, pointing to a question that read, “I’m here today because I’m concerned about . . .” Following this lead phrase were several responses with empty check boxes. Clarice had already marked the ones labeled “My marriage” and “Depression.” There was a tiny dot inside the one that said, “Having thoughts of suicide,” but no check. He looked questioningly at her, and she motioned with her eyes toward the clipboard. He scanned the list, trying to find something he was worried about besides being here in the first place that Clarice hadn’t already marked. There were a few other choices: “My job,” “My children,” “Aging parents,” “Paying bills”—Dave thought about marking that one and writing beside it, “How much does this place cost, anyway?” but thought better of it—“Alcohol or drug use,” “Communication with significant others,” “Sexual issues,” and “Loneliness.” He stabbed quick checks into the boxes for “Sexual issues” and “Communication with significant others” and handed the clipboard back to Clarice without looking at her.

  It occurred to him that the simple fact of completing this intake form in each other’s presence was about as much actual communication as they’d done in the last several months combined, other than the recent confrontation that had led them to this counseling session. The level of his discomfort also gave him the vague sense that something was wrong when a man and his wife had to come to a pastel-painted, spa-smelling office to talk about things that really mattered.

  There was another sheet with a whole battery of questions about marital matters; two copies of this sheet were included, and Clarice told him he was supposed to complete one and she was to do the other one. Dave went to the desk and asked for a pen, then sat back down to start on his form. He hadn’t gotten far into it when he started getting the urge to go someplace behind a closed door to fill it out. It asked things like, “List five attributes that attracted you to your partner initially,” followed by, “Does your partner still possess these attributes?”

  Another question wanted him to write down five dreams or expectations he’d had at the beginning of the relationship, and to indicate whether or to what degree those dreams or expectations had come about. There was a lengthy statement at the bottom of the form letting him know that “Marriage therapy, though geared toward bringing about a higher level of enjoyment and general satisfaction with life, can sometimes have unintended consequences. What is viewed as a positive outcome by one partner may not be viewed in the same way by the other.” The form also warned him that if, in the judgment of the therapist, he was ever considered a danger to himself or others, the therapist had a duty to inform the authorities, as well as any other person who could potentially be involved. There was a line for Dave’s signature at the end of this paragraph.

  He finished the form as quickly as he could, but then he couldn’t decide what to do with it. If he handed it to Clarice, she’d see all his answers. And he didn’t think he wanted to see hers, either. Luckily for him, about the time Clarice finished marking her sheets, the receptionist called their names and asked for the clipboard. Clarice handed her the board and Dave gave her his paperwork at the same time. The receptionist told them Dr. McAtee would see them now. She pointed toward a door around the corner from the desk.

  They walked into an office with walls covered in a dark green, with small splashes and daubs of lighter greens and a purple so subdued it was almost brown. The African art was in here, too. On the wall facing the door hung a watercolor of a black Jesus with little nappy-headed children seated about his knees, smiling up at him. There was up-lighting in the corners, and the mini-blinds—dark green to match the walls—were open just enough to reflect some sunlight toward the ceiling.

  “Hello, folks. Come in and sit down.”

  Carmen McAtee stood in the center of the office on a rug that had been fashioned from some kind of quilt. As Dave might have guessed from the art, she wore a tie-dyed kitenge with the neck embroidered in an ornate design executed in white silk. She was short—maybe five feet six—and pretty round, judging from her face and what he could see of her arms. She had skin the color of well-creamed coffee and the tight cornrows on her head were white, sprinkled with gray. She held out a hand jingling with hoop bracelets, first to Clarice, then to Dave. She motioned them toward chairs. Dave sat on one side of an upholstered love seat, and Clarice took the armchair beside it. Carmen settled herself in another armchair, facing them both. She sat back and smiled, bridging her finger-tips in front of her. She started with some small talk, asking about Clarice’s cane and finding out about the wreck, learning the name of Dave’s business and Clarice’s real estate firm, asking how long they’d known Gary Wilkes, as she called the pastor. She let this go on for about five minutes.

  “Well, I want to congratulate you two for showing up together today,” she said. “That tells me there’s some level of commitment on both your parts to work together toward some solutions to the things that are troubling you. That in itself puts you quite a bit ahead of the game.” She then turned to Dave, still wearing a smile like someone who’d just won a lifetime supply of peace and quiet.

  “All right. Dave, why don’t you tell me your view of what’s going on with you two?”

  Dave had the brief thought that she could’ve just read what they’d written on the clipboard, but decided not to mention that. “Well, uh . . . we’ve been married for fifteen years. I’ve got a good business and Clarice is a successful real estate professional. But the last few years have been . . .” He could se
e Clarice’s shoulders stiffening. “They’ve been kind of hard, I guess. I think we’ve kind of, you know, lost touch with each other,” he said, looking to Clarice for something—confirmation? Rebuttal? He wasn’t sure.

  “What about children?” Carmen said.

  “None,” Dave said, and something in his tone must have alerted the counselor; in the silence that followed, she appeared to be studying him. After a few seconds, she started nodding. She turned to Clarice.

  “All right. Clarice, how about you? What would you like to tell me about how things are going with you and Dave?”

  Clarice’s eyes were moving back and forth between Dave and Carmen. “Well, I suppose I’d like to say first that the reason we’re here is because David has been seeing someone else.”

  If this surprised Carmen, she masked it extremely well. Dave guessed counselors were trained to be pretty shockproof, but to him, Clarice’s words sounded so big in the room, he was surprised to see Carmen react as if Clarice had made a passing remark about the weather.

  “And how do you feel about that?” she said to Clarice.

  Clarice was fidgeting with her hands in her lap. She was sitting on the edge of the armchair, her back ramrod-straight. “I’m . . .

  embarrassed, I guess. And a little betrayed.”

  “Only a little?”

  Clarice was staring at the center of the quilt-carpet. “A lot.”

  “May I ask the first name of this woman you’ve been seeing?” Carmen said.

  “Do we really need to do that?” Dave asked. “I mean, isn’t that a violation of privacy or something?”