Lost in the Reflecting Pool

by Diane Pomerantz

  I decided to stay with Cal Jones for the time being. There was so much going on in my life, I didn’t have the strength to pursue changing lawyers just yet, and there was no hurry.

  I did know that Charles was trying to make contact with many of my doctors in different ways. I found out that he would refer patients to them and then want to discuss me with them, using his physician status to show he was the more believable party. One of the doctors he targeted was my internist. At one of my appointments with her, she casually said, “Diane, I had a call from Charles last week. He wanted to refer a patient to me, but it was very clear that that wasn’t his motive. He seemed to want to talk more about you. I want you to know that I cut him off and told him that I thought the conversation was inappropriate and I wouldn’t engage in it. I also told him that I could not accept any referrals from him. Have you gotten an attorney yet?”

  “I have, but this whole thing feels like it’s more than I can handle,” I told her, adding, “I made an appointment with Dr. Berry, a neurologist my oncologist recommended, so can you give me a referral?”

  “Yes. Just make sure she sends me whatever findings she gets, okay?” She jotted down some notes, and I left her office.

  I was still trying to get my practice going, and as part of that process, I was giving a presentation at a local parents’ group. I was having trouble focusing on getting the material organized, and I knew that I likely would be winging it. Then, a couple of mornings before the presentation, I had a strange experience.

  I had made breakfast for the kids and was having this fantasy that Victoria would show up at my talk. Just then, Charles came into the kitchen and said, “Di, I was wondering if you’d like me to come to your talk on Wednesday night, for moral support.”

  “Sure,” I responded automatically, but he kept talking.

  “Not that I would learn anything new,” he continued, and it became clear that he was offering for some ulterior motive, clearly not to give me moral support.

  “Why don’t you think about whether it’s something you really want to do, ’cause if it is, it should be for moral support. If you really don’t want to do it, that’s okay, and it would be better for me if you weren’t there.” I smiled as I spoke calmly.

  “I really do want to go, Di.” His reply came much more quickly than usual.

  “Great,” I told him, and I casually walked out of the kitchen, calling to the kids to get their things together so I could drive them to school.

  There was a pretty big crowd at the talk, which was on attentional problems and learning difficulties in children. The format was informal, and Charles was an active participant, which made the presentation go well. Perhaps that was part of his motivation: to be onstage himself. Nevertheless, I did once again feel a connection to him.

  On the drive home, continuing to feel that bond, I said, “Why don’t I get a sitter for Saturday night? Maybe we could go to a movie, have dinner, have some time to talk?”

  The silence was deafening and felt eternal.

  Finally, he responded, “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “What is there to think about?” I asked.

  Another long pause followed. Then he said, “Well, if I say yes, you’ll just want more.”

  I found myself thinking the words I had shouted at him in my rages: You bastard, drop dead, I hate you, but I said nothing and just sat with the understanding that I did not like this man very much at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  CHARLES WAS DEFINITELY SLIDING DOWN A SLIPPERY slope. I knew from what I read in his journal that Victoria’s estranged husband supported her quite well and that she was in good financial circumstances. He made it clear in his writing that she had money and would provide for him financially. “I don’t want to give up the money,” he said. “If I go back with Di, anything Victoria gives me will become a loan.”

  Everyone told me not to read it, but I felt compelled. Everyone told me he was leaving it out for me to read, and I knew that was probably true. Nevertheless, I kept reading. I was determined that before we separated, I would make a copy of his journal. I wanted it for court. I wanted it as a record of my sanity.

  Charles was seeing fewer and fewer patients, and he often forgot about people he had scheduled. Sometimes he would be on the phone—with Victoria, I’m sure—and a patient would sit in the waiting room for an hour or more before asking the secretary where he was. I couldn’t wait for the surgery so I could move my office. I was also so glad I had a different last name.

  More and more, I was hearing from people what they had seen for years, what I had seen, what I had felt, what I had ignored. Person after person said, “We would come to your house for dinner and leave at the end of the evening so disturbed by the way Charles spoke to you” and, “We wondered how a smart, strong-spirited woman like you would tolerate being treated that way.”

  I heard it from everyone, and I knew this treatment from Charles was what had culminated in my rages.

  One day, I had an appointment with a couple who were concerned about their six-year-old son. They began to tell me their worries, and as I listened, I sensed a hovering part of me that was aware of how disdainful and condescending the husband was toward his wife. Nevertheless, she continued speaking, laughing, being kind, and acting as if she didn’t notice the way she was being treated. I thought simply, She is me. Next, I considered their son and what it must mean for him, a small boy, to see his father treating his mother that way. What it must mean for him to see his mother acting as if nothing were wrong with how she was being treated. Then I thought of my own children. I already knew raging was not the answer, and—as much as part of me wished for something different with Charles, despite my ambivalence, despite wanting my children to have an intact family—I knew that we had passed the point of no return.

  “Listen, Di,” he said one evening, “you aren’t pulling your weight around here, and you haven’t for years. You’ve had Camille helping with the house and the kids since your stem cell transplant—what more do you need? You should be bringing in money. I want you to start paying some of the bills. I also want you to think about getting your own health insurance.”

  I was astonished, or maybe I wasn’t. He had absolutely no concept of what a family was or what it took to make a family work; he just didn’t want to support us. He didn’t want to spend his money on anyone but himself. Camille, helping? Yes, she was. She had been helping out in our household since I had been in the hospital for my stem cell transplant—just a little thing like that, no big deal.

  “Send the bills to my lawyer, Charles,” I said, as I walked into the other room, where the kids were watching a movie. I sat between them and took a handful of popcorn, asking, “So, what did I miss, guys?” I had no intention of discussing finances with him. He could have his attorney discuss them with my attorney.

  It was a few days later that I got a message from Dr. Kealz’s secretary to give her a call. I thought it was to get the details about the surgery, which was coming up soon.

  “Hi, Kenisha. This is Diane Pomerantz. You left a message for me to call you?” I said when I called back.

  “Oh, hi, Diane. Listen, Dr. Kealz wanted me to call you right away because there’s a problem with December third. There was something that she didn’t realize was on her calendar for that date that can’t be changed, and she thinks the surgery is going to have to wait until mid-January. She said she would call you to reschedule it. She’ll call later today or tomorrow. She wanted me to tell you she’s very sorry about this.”

  It took a few seconds before I could find my voice. I said, “Okay, I’ll wait for her call. Thanks.” That old numbness was there again, the numbness that came when my feelings were just too intense.

  Has Charles somehow found a way to interfere with my surgery? Has he gotten to Dr. Kealz? I wondered.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, but the ringing of the phone brought me back.

  “Hi, Di, it’s Pam.
I wanted to know if you’d like to stop by and meet the other people in the practice. I know you know Frank and Maria, but you can meet the others. We’re having a lunch meeting on Friday at noon. We thought you could join us; can you make it?” she asked.

  “I think I can, sure, that’ll be fine, but there’s something else I need to talk to you about. I don’t know what to do. I’m really glad you called when you did.”

  I had met Pam a year earlier through a mutual friend. We had been introduced because we were both diagnosed with very aggressive breast cancers within a few days of each other. We literally went through our treatment together and supported each other. We had a lot of other things in common as well. Besides following the same treatment protocols, we were both therapists, our kids went to the same school, and we had both gone through fertility treatments. She was also married to a physician, but the similarity stopped there. Her husband was the most supportive man on Earth. He was on staff at the hospital where I had gone for treatment. He knew all my doctors.

  Through tears, with panic in my voice, I said, “Pam, Dr. Kealz had to change the surgery from December third. Charles is badgering me about doing it anyway and now is starting to talk about not wanting me on our health insurance. I’m scared that if I put off the procedure, I may not have insurance. I don’t know what to do. She’s going to call me about rescheduling, but I’m in such a state of panic, I can’t stand much more of this.” I couldn’t control my sobs.

  “When Shelby gets home, I’ll talk to him about this and see if there’s anything he can do. Try not to let yourself ‘what if’ about everything. Just let it be, and let’s see if there’s anything to be done, okay? I’ll call you after I talk with Shelby.”

  “Thanks, Pam. I really do appreciate it, and I’ll see you on Friday,” I reminded her, as we hung up.

  Although I should have known better, when Charles came home that evening, I automatically told him that my surgery had been canceled, though I didn’t say anything about my conversation with Pam. He actually didn’t even know who Pam was.

  “We can’t afford for you to be doing the surgery, and you know that. I don’t see how you would even consider such a thing. It’s completely selfish. But it’s just like you . . .” He would have continued on, as he always did, but I interrupted him.

  “I guess there really isn’t anything to discuss, then,” I said, and I walked into the bedroom.

  A few moments later, Charles walked in behind me and sat on the side of the bed.

  “Di, I don’t think there’s any rush for us not to live under the same roof. What do you think?” He looked at me.

  Did he actually want to know what I thought? Sure, he comes and goes as he pleases and has an intimate relationship with his patient-lover, and I’m here cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the kids.

  “I can’t see how it would work for me, Charles,” I said, with no expression in my voice, working hard to stay in the state of “transitional space” that I had been practicing in a meditation class I was taking.

  “Well, maybe we could have some sort of agreement,” he said. Then Sam bounded in and was clearly surprised to see us both in the bedroom, sitting and talking on the bed. Elli walked in behind him, her face flushed, saying, “My stomach is hurting, Mom. I feel so sick.” I got up to tend to her. Feeling her head, I knew she had a fever, and that was the end of the conversation. I often felt saved by the children.

  That same night, Charles slept upstairs. He just got into bed and went to sleep as if he had been doing that every night. I said nothing. I was getting too tired to try to figure out the “whys” of everything he did. I took my pillow and blanket and slept in the family room. I was finding that there were moments when I felt more powerful, but I also found that when I allowed myself to feel my strength and power, I quickly became frightened. I didn’t want to be a single parent.

  The next evening, Charles got home earlier than usual. Being home for dinner was very rare for him, even when things were okay; this night, he was home at five. The kids were thrilled, and we all had dinner together, though I found Charles’s cheerfulness annoying.

  After dinner, I worked on homework with Sammy, and Charles helped Elli with her science fair project.

  After the kids were in bed, Charles came into the bedroom. I stayed calm, despite my irritation with how he was trying to play me.

  “Di, I was thinking that maybe we should talk to someone together, a marital therapist. Maybe we should try to talk about things with someone before we go any further with all of this. I know I said I wouldn’t, but maybe we should.” The muscle in his cheek twitched as he spoke.

  “I’ll have to think about it, Charles. I don’t know what your motivation is, and, to be honest, at this point I’m not sure that I even want to do it. I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  “Okay.” He looked down, picked up his phone from the dresser, and went downstairs to the basement.

  I sat there, recalling the year before I had gotten sick. I had been working with an adolescent. Her father was seeing Charles in therapy. Charles would tell me how “crazy” the wife was and how the two daughters hated her. That wasn’t what I was hearing from my adolescent patient. One day, I started hearing from Charles that the father was planning to leave his wife. Charles had advised him to go into counseling with her so that he looked as if he were doing everything he could to make the marriage work; he told the husband how to hide his assets; and he told him ways to get around some of his professional indiscretions.

  Back then, I was surprised at how easily Charles seemed to come up with these solutions. Back then, I was disturbed because I felt as if Charles was manipulating this patient and working to break up this man’s marriage. Back then, when I met with this man in a parent meeting about his daughter, I found myself thinking, His words sound like “unmetabolized Charles.” I think I may even have said something to that effect to Charles. What I was thinking now, though, was that Charles had done a dry run with that patient. So much of what had gone on with that patient, so much of what Charles had told him to do, Charles himself was now doing.

  I also read in Charles’s journal that Victoria had set up a “healing fund” for him. What a joke, I thought. He needs a healing fund to support his activities to heal from his trauma. Had he always been this way? I really didn’t think he was this crazy. I also saw in the journal that he had been having his patients pay him in cash. I was sure he was squirreling away money.

  No, I was not going into any kind of counseling with him. I was getting out. I just needed the means to do it.

  I got a message from Pam the next morning saying that Shelby had spoken to Dr. Carlton, the surgeon who had done my mastectomy, and she was trying to work out the surgery schedule with Dr. Kealz. Despite all the pain I’d experienced in the past year, there had also been so many moments like this, so many moments of kindness and friendship, and they all made a difference.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ONE SUNDAY IN EARLY NOVEMBER 1999, I SAT ON THE deck with a cup of tea, reveling in the vivid orange, yellow, and red colors of the fallen leaves, which made the glare from the sunlight even stronger. I loved this kind of morning. Charles, wanting more time with the kids, had taken them for a hike, and I expected that they would go for lunch afterward and be gone all day. I had a day to myself. I might go get a manicure, something I hadn’t done in over a year. Maybe I would even get a massage. I felt like being good to myself. Of course, Charles would say I was being selfish. Fuck Charles. No, I wasn’t even going to think of ways he could ruin my day.

  After I went into the house, had a nice, leisurely breakfast, and read the paper—something I never did—I showered, dressed, and started to plan my day. It was eleven o’clock, and just as I was about to call the nail salon, the door opened and the kids flew in, with Charles following. Elli picked up a magazine and a banana and flopped into a chair. Charles went down to the basement.

  “Back already?” I asked, as Sam ju
mped onto my lap.

  “Yeah, the trail was boring. We should have taken our bikes or scooters.”

  “Well, didn’t you see some interesting stuff? I thought you were going to have lunch at the Wagon Wheel.”

  “Nah, Daddy said he had to get back to do work.” Sam sighed, adding, “Like he always does.”

  Charles was suddenly standing there. I looked at him and then at the kids. “So, what are you guys going to do for the rest of the day?”

  “Well, I have to get over to the office. I have a load of paperwork to do. I’m really falling behind.”

  “Oh, I thought today was a day you were all going to spend together.” I began to stack the newspaper. Charles picked up his coffee mug, and I noticed the shine of his wedding band on his finger.

  “I figured that if we took an early hike, at least we’d have some time together, right, guys?” By now, the kids were in the family room, negotiating which TV program they were going to watch. “I’m going to get going so that I can get my work done. See you all later.” Charles stuck his head into the family room but didn’t get much of a response.

  I stood in the kitchen, looking out at the spectacular colors glittering in front of me. Through my tears, the shapes and colors were both tantalizing and frightening. I sat down and took some deep breaths and then went into the family room.

  “It’s a beautiful day. Finish this show, and then we’ll turn off the television and talk about some plans for the day.”

  Sam didn’t respond, but Elli followed me into the kitchen.

  “You know, Mom, Dad always does this. He says he’s going to spend the day with us, but then he spends just a little time and goes off to the office or wherever he goes. Sam really feels bad. I don’t like it when Dad hurts him like that.”

  “Does it hurt you, too?”

  “I’m older. He’s my little brother, and nobody hurts my little brother, not even Dad!”