He was using his nightly Waterpik that preceded his nightly rubber tipping and his nightly flossing. I was doing the same, kind of. With soap and water I only half removed my makeup, because after all I wanted Burt to want me again. I did a shortened version of the Waterpik and passed on flossing, choosing instead to try on various nightgowns from my ever-growing collection. Eventually, I hoped I’d go to bed wearing something he would respond to.
He brought his rubber tip and his floss with him into the bedroom. Lying on the bed, he clicked on ESPN and began to floss methodically.
“Do you have some for me?” I asked, lying down beside him on my side of the bed.
Begrudgingly, he handed me a string. “I don’t know why you always ask for mine when you have your own,” he responded, annoyed. How could I tell him that I liked it when he gave me something of his, even a piece of his floss? It made me feel taken care of.
“You always used to give me your floss,” I said, sounding pathetic even to myself.
Silently he flossed and watched the tennis highlights. I took my floss and wadded it up into a little ball as a memento. I began reading randomly from one of my interchangeable self-help books, feeling very, very alone. He muted the sound on the television and turned to me. “I need to tell you something so I don’t get cancer.”
“What?” I asked, a little startled.
“Well, Jack wants me to be more authentic. He says if I don’t tell the truth I’ll get sick. He says I haven’t been my real self most of my life. I ‘people please.’ ”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
He put his hand lightly on mine. “It’s not easy for me to say this, but sometimes, [count 2, 3, uh, 4] when you touch me . . . Now please don’t take this the wrong way, but I . . . I just can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick, uh, almost nauseated.”
What was the right way to take this? I pulled my hand away quickly.
“It’s hard for me to say this,” he continued, “but sometimes lying next to you at night, uh, I just feel so trapped. I don’t know, uh, I’m working on it all in therapy, but it’s important for me to just tell you the truth, so I did.”
He got up and walked into the bathroom. I was searching for the little piece of floss I’d discarded to hang myself with. He was rubber-tipping his gums. On finishing he applied his night cream. “You know,” he said reentering the room, “I’m really glad we can have these talks. They may be difficult, but Jack is right. I always feel better after I’m able to tell you how I’m really feeling. Don’t you?”
I was unable to answer him. I’d just felt a tear drip down my greaseless face, and now I had to try and sleep with two milligrams less of Dalmane and without taking anything he said personally.
“Are you okay?” he asked, turning on his sleep machine. Without waiting for a response, he turned off the light.
Thirty
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up and began to cry. I knew my marriage was in deep trouble. I asked myself, “Where is the part of me that should be saying, ‘Hey, if you don’t appreciate me, you can leave.’?”
We decided that for the moment I would live in town and Burt would move out to the beach house. He needed time to think about whether he could ever be “all in” again. He did drive in almost every day to see Cristopher, and I was grateful for that, though he was always hours later than his ETA.
Early one Saturday morning, Burt called from the beach. Could I meet him out there for a beer and a hamburger? Odd, I thought. Neither one of us drank beer or ate meat, but he’d suggested we go to this hamburger bar, the Malibu Inn, where neither of us had ever been before. As crazy as it may sound to you, I actually believed it was good news that he wanted to meet. Maybe this was going to be a new Burt.
I didn’t want to be late, but I wanted to look good so I raced into the shower, did my hair, diffuser, blow-dryer, and flat iron (it gets humid at the beach). I should have just left it curly, but that was the way my hair was naturally, so straight had to be better.
I chose my clothes carefully.
I kissed Cris, who was now five years old and on his way with his nanny to meet his friend Jeffrey for a play date. Driving to the beach, I imagined how wonderful life with Burt would be now that he’d come to his senses and was moving back home. I felt relieved that the last painful months were finally over. I could put it all behind me. Because, when you got down to it, all the nonsense aside, he needed me, Cristopher needed us both, and we all wanted to be a family again.
I pulled into the parking lot in front of the Malibu Inn. I checked myself in the mirror and added a little more lip gloss to my already overly glossed lips.
Walking in, I spotted him at the bar. I felt my heart beat harder. Just looking at him made me feel alive. One glance and you could see which one of us took more effort getting ready. He’d arrived unshaven, hair unwashed, in sweats and tee shirt, and of course his obligatory sneakers.
“Hi, how’re you doing?” he asked in his little-boy shy manner, barely making eye contact.
He kissed me on the cheek and it felt like cold air. He was drinking a beer and he ordered me a Diet Coke. I was thinking how long it had been since I had felt desirable. If only I was a little more . . . what? Taller? Thinner? Younger? What?
“You look very pretty,” he mumbled, barely looking at me.
Oh, good, I thought, this is going well.
“Listen, baby,” he said, “I, uh, [2, 3, 4] really want to work on our marriage. I really want to give it a good try.”
I still loved the rhythm in which he spoke. It was original. It was a lullaby. “I know I’ve been, uh, kind of torn up lately, in and out . . . You know [count 1, uh 3, 4] I know it’s been really hard for, uh, both of us. I’ve been in hell and, uh, I know I’ve put you and the little guy in a really awkward place, and it’s gonna stop.”
Tears started to well up in his eyes. I loved his sensitivity.
Good, I thought. This is all good.
He put his hand on my knee.
“I guess you know what I’m going to say to you.”
I loved that he had his hand on my knee. I had to make myself concentrate. “Yes,” I answered confidently. “You want to come back.”
“I’m sure you have a pretty good idea,” he said as though he hadn’t heard me. “You know, the way it’s been with us this past year.”
My heart was beating hard with anticipation. This was the only thing I didn’t like about Burt. It took him so long to just say, “Honey, I love you and I’m coming home.”
“Listen,” he said, as he took my hand in his. He looked down at the sawdust floor. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
Unable to contain myself any longer I blurted out, “I know, I know. You’re coming home!”
And at that exact instant he said, “There’s someone else.”
Because we were both talking at the exact same time, I wasn’t quite sure I heard him correctly.
“Could you repeat that?” I asked, as I felt myself going totally numb.
“I didn’t mean for this to ever happen.” He began to cry but still continued. “Honest, it started out like nothing. It was harmless. Just a drink, in Aspen when you and the little guy got that flu . . . I was just looking to feel better . . . a night . . . a girl in a bar . . . a beer . . . I never thought it would go this far. That’s why I’ve lied for so long. I kept hoping it would burn itself out . . . but I need more time. It’s been so hard for me to live a lie . . . Can you imagine how hard this has been for me to hurt you—someone who I really love?”
Tears were streaming down his face. I wanted to comfort him, but something stopped me. I needed to understand. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I gripped the edge of the table for support as I asked the question I didn’t want to know the answer to.
“There’s another woman?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry.” He was still looking down. “Would it help if I told you more?” Obviously needing to tell me.
I already knew
all I needed. He didn’t love me anymore. I couldn’t speak. I felt like I was going to be ill. He didn’t notice and continued.
“She’s twenty-eight. I know there’s a big age difference. Sixty-three, twenty-eight . . . But she makes me feel young.”
My heart was beating so loudly it was drowning out everything he was saying. Something about not lying anymore, something about having to tell the truth because it was making him sick. The guilt was making him sick!
I actually said, I am very sorry to have to report, “You mean you’re not coming home?”
“I’d really like to come home but—”
“But what, Burt?”
“Well, I feel really torn in two . . . This is so painful for me . . . for all of us.”
“So what are you saying?” I screamed, getting up and knocking over the table. “Why the fuck did you make me come here? So I wouldn’t go crazy in public?”
“Please, baby, don’t make a scene. Calm down. I just couldn’t lie anymore. You’re my best friend. I love you.”
He awkwardly reached for my hand.
“You fucking bastard.” I threw the remaining half of my Diet Coke in his face.
This couldn’t be real, I thought, as I made my way tremblingly out the door. Somehow I found my car keys. I looked back to see if he was coming after me. He wasn’t. It was over. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have not seen this coming?
I started the car. I began driving and sobbing, heading nowhere. The pain was so great I thought I might die. Of all of the ways I considered dying in my life, and believe me, I’d considered them all, I never thought I could die of a broken heart.
Wouldn’t most women have figured out there was a twenty-eight-year-old stashed away somewhere? Why hadn’t I? What was wrong with me? He had confirmed my worst fear. I was a person who was, ultimately, leaveable.
All those months of his midlife crisis, of his needing to go away, needing to get some space. Just go away and be with her! Eight months of lying and cheating. So much for my keen intuition. All of his trips and his needing to be alone with himself. All the phone calls he made when I thought he was alone sorting out his life. He was with her: the girl who had no name but had my husband.
Thirty-One
OBVIOUSLY, THIS WAS THE end . . . unless you were me. I refused to give up. And Burt was the perfect partner to not give up with—still willing to “give it a try” without really trying, and willing to record our therapy sessions but not listen to the tapes. He left just enough air in my balloon of false hope that maybe this could all still work out.
Like a recalcitrant schoolboy, he dragged the half-filled balloon behind him, a used possession, no longer interesting but familiar. He was afraid to let it go. He was used to the string wrapped around his finger, and although he already had a new toy he thought he liked better, he couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t break or wear out, and then he’d have nothing. It was better to just let the balloon drag behind him. It didn’t inconvenience him. He barely knew it was there.
FOR ME, THOSE NEXT months became what I call the Weather Report months. Once a week Burt would see me and say, “Uh . . . You know [count 2, 3, 4], if I could, uh, just take, uh, a couple of weeks, ’cause now I feel like I’m fifty-eight percent in the marriage, and about forty-two out.” Or, a week later, “Hey, you know, I’m seventy in, but that other thirty . . .” He sighed. “If I could just get away and think . . .” He was processing in front of me, with no awareness of how that made me feel.
There was no way for this to end but badly. Pat Allen, the therapist we were working with to try to save our marriage—or rather, I was working with—told me to stay until it made me sick, and then I’d never have to do this again. So I stayed, and even when I felt a little ill, I still stayed. And in the end it was Burt who left, because he wanted to see what another life would feel like with Jane.
FOUR WEEKS AFTER I’D filed for divorce, the pain was only getting worse. There was no more time to screw around with shrinks crazier than I was. Dr. James Grotstein, author of a dozen books, came highly recommended, so I had high hopes. And yet after three sessions, I was already disappointed.
I lay down, trying not to be judgmental about having to put my head on the little paper napkin he clipped to the head of his couch as if he were a dentist. He obviously changed them between patients. It was like he was protecting his cherished couch from patient fallout. If he couldn’t deal with a little dandruff, how was he going to handle real problems like mine?
I lay there silently, trying to like him.
He didn’t say a word. For Grotstein, it was probably a few minutes of quiet time.
Finally, I spoke. “How long does it take?” I asked impatiently. “It’s been a month since I filed for divorce. When does it get better?”
“It’s a process. I wish I had the answer for you,” he replied impersonally.
“So do I.”
“What I can tell you,” his voice intoned from behind my head, “is that the best way through it is right through it, right through the center.”
I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined at this moment he thought I was a jerk to be lying on his couch paying two hundred dollars for a fifty-minute session to hear, “You go right through the center to the center.” His voice just didn’t comfort me the way I would have liked it to, nor did his high-waisted pants, which I couldn’t help noticing every time I entered his office.
“I just don’t feel any better when I’m here,” I said.
“Why should you?” he replied in his detached voice. “You’re in mourning.”
“Well, how long?” I said. “And don’t tell me you don’t know. I pay you to know. I want answers. I’m so sick of not having answers.” I began to cry.
He said nothing. From above my head, a lone tissue floated down through the air and landed on my breast. He didn’t even hand it to me—for two hundred dollars, no contact.
I wiped my eyes and spoke.
“It’s difficult for me to say this but . . . I don’t think I like you very much. I mean, aside from the fact that you’re a man and most men have proven themselves to be quite disappointing in my life, I don’t think I like you. And I swear, I have never ever said this to any other therapist I’ve ever had. And I have had a lot.”
“Really?” he said, suddenly fascinated. He was probably so tired of hearing these patients whine about their problems, on and on, day after day. At last! Something about him!
“So, tell me,” he asked, perking up, “what is it you don’t like about me?”
“Well, everything. This kind of therapy. The rigidity of me lying on a couch, talking to a wall, going over the same stuff I’ve gone over a hundred times before with therapists who did it better than you. You don’t seem smart enough or empathetic enough or anything enough. I get better insights on the phone with my girlfriend.”
“I see. So Daddy disappointed you, and Burt disappointed you, and now you’re going to add me to the list. Yes?”
“But what if you really are a disappointment? I mean, some people are just disappointing.”
“Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Pause. “I’m sorry, but we really do have to stop now,” he said unfeelingly.
I sat up and slipped into my wedged heels.
“One thirty on Monday,” he added as I stood to leave.
Deliberately avoiding having to look at him, I made my way to his exit door. He never ushered me out the front door, so I never got to see his other patients. They were probably all as disappointed as I was. This way we couldn’t compare notes.
“Oh, Carole!” he called before I closed the door behind me. Now I was forced to turn and look at him. He held his appointment book in his hands.
“I’m so sorry. I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I don’t have you down for one thirty. I won’t have that opening for another month and I don’t have any other time on Monday. How’s three fifteen on Tuesday?”
It was so easy to get upse
t with him. I blurted out, “It seems like we spend most of our time scheduling and rescheduling my appointments. You’re always messing them up. I hate when you make mistakes.”
“I know. I’m just your disappointing Daddy/Therapist, aren’t I? As soon as something opens up I’ll give you your own regular time.” He shrugged apologetically. “But right now I’m all booked.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re very good. It just means no one ever gets well here,” I muttered as I stomped toward the door.
He was a big disappointment, I thought, but at the moment he was the only man I had. He would have to do.
At least I had my “little man,” I thought as I drove home. I loved him so much. I started to feel sad for Cristopher. Not yet six, he was so young to have to get through this, along with being adopted.
That night, as I tucked him into bed he said, “Mommy, I’m scared. Don’t go.” He looked up at me pleadingly. “Rub my back.” He was so beautiful.
I’m scared, too, I thought to myself.
“Mommy’s right here, Baby.” I knelt down next to him and began rubbing his back. He looked so sweet all scrunched up inside his Ninja Turtle sheets.
“I miss Daddy,” he said.
“Me too,” I said. “But Daddy loves you very much. He really does, Baby.”
“Doesn’t he love you?” Cristopher asked.
No, I thought. Daddy doesn’t love me. He loves a waitress/ski instructor.
“Daddy loves me,” I said. “But not the way . . . not the way a man loves a woman if he . . . uh, if he doesn’t want to . . .”
I didn’t want to paint his daddy as a villain.
“He just doesn’t want to live with Mommy anymore,” I said, hoping that was okay as a reason.
“Maybe Daddy doesn’t like girls,” Cristopher said, offering up a pretty good explanation.
“Maybe not,” I answered, thinking Cris might have better answers than Grotstein.
“Mommy, I want to get a new Daddy,” he said, very much the same way as he asked for a new soccer ball.
“You mean you want Mommy to get married again?”
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