by Sylvia True
“I need five spider legs, one toad, and two student eyeballs.” She jots that down. “Here is what I happen to have. Eight eyeballs, twenty-five spider legs, and only one toad. Which one,” she asks, “will limit my brew?”
Bryan shoots up a hand. Lizzy nods for him to answer.
“You have a broomstick?”
“Of course. But which ingredient will limit how much I can make?”
“The toad,” Bryan says. “That’s kinda easy.”
“Right. It’s no more difficult when you use formulas and equations.” Her right temple aches. It’s the first sign of a migraine. She puts up a problem.
“Work on this,” she tells the class, then opens the drawer where she keeps her bag. She reaches in for the blue Imitrex bottle and shakes it. There’s no noise. She rummages around in her purse and realizes she doesn’t have another bottle.
It’s eleven-twenty. She’ll have to call the main office and ask them to find someone to watch her class for forty minutes while she runs home.
The dean of students is in Lizzy’s room within five minutes. She explains what the class needs to do and what her next class should get started on, then she races out of the building.
Home is thirteen minutes away when all the traffic lights are green, seventeen when she hits red. She pulls out of the school parking lot, massages the spot above her eye that is starting to pulse with more force, and feels frustrated with herself for coming to school unprepared.
Passing the old town hall, she glances at the daffodils that are starting to shoot up and begins to think of the group. She likes everyone a lot, and even after only two weeks, she’ll miss them, but she’s decided it isn’t the right fit for her. She can relate to all of the women, but her own situation just doesn’t feel nearly as critical. Later today, she’ll give Kathryn a call.
On top of the pain above her right eye that is growing steadily sharper, her body is beginning to feel listless, another symptom.
She turns onto Rolling Hill Road. Their yellow colonial is a few houses away, and she squints when she thinks she sees Greg’s green Toyota in the driveway. Why would he be home? He works eight- to ten-hour days at a software company right down the street from the high school she teaches at.
She parks in the driveway, closes the door carefully, quietly, not wanting the sound to pierce through her head. She hurries up the front concrete steps, opens the door, and calls for him.
There’s no answer. In the foyer she looks up at the chandelier. It shivers slightly. Odd. It must be her headache offsetting her vision. She calls to Greg again.
Still nothing. Maybe he didn’t feel well and came home for a nap.
“Greg,” she calls yet again. “I just came home to get some Imitrex.”
She climbs the stairs, then stops on the landing. Is that rap music? She glances down the hall at the doors of the four bedrooms that were once intended for the children who never happened.
The noise is definitely coming from his study. She knocks. He doesn’t answer, and she imagines him lying on the carpet, unconscious from a heart attack.
She barges in.
“Oh God.” She covers her mouth. There on the computer screen, which happens to be in her direct line of sight, is a girl on her hands and knees, with one man penetrating her mouth and another man forcing himself in from behind.
Greg glances over his shoulder, sees her, and hurries to shut off the computer.
She stares as the screen goes black and he zips up his pants.
He turns off the music. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I was getting a headache, and I didn’t have any medicine at school. I thought you’d be at work.” She speaks robotically, as if she’s ordering food from a drive-through window.
He stands and walks toward her, then stops when she glances at the crotch of his pants. The last thing she wants right now is for him to touch her. She thinks of sticky white semen.
“I didn’t think…” he begins.
“No, of course not. Why would you? I mean, I never come home during the day. I mean, I didn’t think to call. I didn’t think you’d be home. I … Why were you listening to that awful music?” she asks.
He fidgets with his belt, looking around the room at everything but her. “I like it sometimes.”
But she’s already forgotten the question. That girl on his computer, she looked younger than the students at her school. She was blond and petite, and her breasts were small, peachlike. She had been moaning, as if she enjoyed what they were doing to her.
Lizzy points to the computer. “Do you think she really likes it?”
“What?” He avoids her gaze.
“The girl you were watching. Do you think she really likes it?” She feels strange. Not crazy, or enraged, or upset. And her headache, it’s still there, but it’s oddly disconnected from her, as if it’s a few feet away, pulsing healthily.
“Lizzy, look, I’m sorry. I—”
“How old do you think she is?” she asks.
He backs up. “Look, I know you’re upset.”
Except that’s not how she feels. At least not in the way he’s thinking she is. No, she’s worried about the girl.
“Do you think she’s eighteen?” she asks.
“Of course she’s eighteen.” His words come out squeaky, defensive. “She has to be. They can’t hire younger ones.”
“But she didn’t look it.”
“It’s against the law for them to be under eighteen.” He finally looks at her, his face red and angry. “They have to be,” he shouts.
“Don’t talk so loudly.” She puts a hand to her head. Why is he yelling? She just wants to know how old the girl is. That’s all.
“It’s just that your questions seem so … so … off the point.”
Her head feels as if it’s filled with wet concrete. “What is the point?” she asks.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” His face is redder and sweaty.
Somewhere in her brain she receives a message that she should be hurrying to the bathroom, grabbing her medicine, and rushing back to school. But she doesn’t move. His eyes dart.
“Work, what do you tell them?” She watches him. He looks at her for a second but can’t hold her gaze.
“Sometimes I work at home where it’s quieter.” He speaks to the wall.
“With that music?” The neurons in her brain begin to light up, to connect again. Her headache is back, tenfold. “How often do you come home?”
“It’s not like I keep track. I don’t have a time card.”
Her chest swells and burns as if it’s filling with poison gas. She holds on to the wooden door frame. “Why are you getting so defensive?”
“I’m not getting defensive.” He stiffens. “It’s just that I feel like you’re the Spanish Inquisition.”
She glances around the room. The blinds are down, which she feels grateful for. Not that anyone could see in on a bright day like today, but if the mailman, or … She sniffs. The air is musty, and she guesses the windows haven’t been opened for a while. She walks to the bookshelf and picks up their wedding picture. In it they are smiling at each other, glowing, as if nothing but the other existed. She places it facedown.
“I’m not the Spanish Inquisition,” she says, emotionless. “I’m your wife. The one you don’t want to have sex with.”
“It’s not about you,” he says.
“You know, I used to think you were shy, inhibited, self-conscious. I used to think that’s why it was difficult for you to have sex. But it’s because you’d rather look at other women.”
“Lizzy, please. It’s not about you or us.”
It feels as if there’s a knife going through her right temple. She has to get her medication, but she can’t, not yet.
“But it is about us,” she says. “It’s about you choosing to have your sex life without me. So it is about me. And us.” She thinks someone in her group said this, and it didn’t really click then. It does now.
&nbs
p; “Whatever.” He shakes his head. “I can’t deal with all the philosophical stuff. I have to get back to work.”
“I don’t think this is exactly philosophical.” There’s an awful taste in her mouth, like sour milk. More neurons connect, yet not enough for her to fully engage. Is this shock? she wonders as she watches him touch his belt, his hair, move his feet, as if he’s skulking around in a cage. He’s free to leave.
She sinks to the floor. “I don’t know what to do.” She tugs out her bun. Her hair falls into large ringlets.
He sits a few feet away and reaches to touch her, but stops himself. “You have a bad headache. You need to take your medicine and lie down.”
She flicks a tiny scrap of paper on the rug. “I just don’t understand. I mean, it’s okay if you watch a little porn. I’m not a prude. It’s that…” She wraps a lock of hair around her finger and pulls it as hard as she can. “It’s that … you don’t want me. That’s all. Really, I’m not a prude.”
“But I do want you. I’ve told you that.” He taps his hand on the carpet, frustrated.
She takes a deep breath. Get it together, she tells herself, yet she’s cracking, and every time he talks her arms prickle, and her blood surges.
“Stop,” she shouts, even though it makes her head scream to raise her voice. “You not having sex with me is about me.”
He grabs her arm. “Come on. Get up and take your medicine.”
“This is not about my medicine. I’m not crazy. Don’t treat me like I’m crazy.” Although even as she says that, she realizes that she’s not looking like a picture of mental health at the moment.
“I’m not treating you like you’re crazy. But you need to stand up. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
She bats his hand away. “I don’t want medicine or water. I want you to have sex with me, now. Here in this room, where you watch other women. That’s the least you can do.” She glares, daring him.
He grunts and shakes his head. “You’re not rational.”
“I come home. You’re watching porn on the computer, which means you must be horny. You tell me you want me, and here I am, ready and willing. How is that not rational?”
“I can’t do it on command.”
“Then I’ll help you.” Her fingers tremble as she begins to undo her blouse. Her hands feel as if they’re in oven mitts. She’ll be here until midnight if she keeps trying this way. She rips open her blouse, hears the buttons pop off. One of them pings as it hits the bookshelf.
“Stop,” he tells her.
“I’m not stopping.” She takes off her camisole and unhooks her bra.
He stands and walks to the door.
She gets up, glances at the strewn clothes on the carpet, then approaches him. She pushes him against the wall. “So tell me, aren’t my breasts good enough for you? Or am I just too old?”
He looks away. “Liz, stop. I can’t do this. Get dressed.”
“So I’m right, you don’t want me. You can’t even stand to look at me.” She grabs his chin, turns his face.
He tries to nudge her away. “You need to get control of yourself.”
“No, you need to show me you want me.”
“Don’t do this.” His words are tight, his eyes small and mean.
She looks down at herself, at her breasts that sag, and suddenly it’s not him she hates anymore. It’s herself.
She runs out of the room and locks herself in the master bathroom. She finds her medicine in the cabinet and takes two.
“Are you okay?” Greg calls through the door.
She turns on the faucet to the bath to drown out his voice, then begins to yank open the drawers. There isn’t anything in particular she’s looking for. Pill bottles, nail clippers, bobby pins, barrettes, and razors go flying. She picks up a lipstick from the floor and writes on the mirror.
You ugly, crazy bitch.
She empties a few more drawers. An old, unused pregnancy test and another pill bottle clatter on the tile floor. She picks up the bottle—Klonopin prescribed a few years ago by a fertility doctor who said there was nothing wrong with either of them, that she just needed to relax. He also told them that Greg should save up, not have too many orgasms before she ovulated. What if they couldn’t have a baby because he was masturbating all the time?
The pills expired ages ago. Still, she opens the bottle, tosses three little green tablets into her mouth, and swallows. She pulls a towel from the rack and sinks her head into it.
She cries. The bathwater runs. Greg knocks.
Eventually either the crying or the Klonopin exhausts her. She curls on the floor, closes her eyes, and imagines being with the group, telling the women what a crazy person she became. Soon she is fantasizing about going on a retreat with them. Maybe to Mexico. They will drink margaritas on the beach and laugh at their ridiculous lives.
Somewhere far away she hears the banging on the door. Go away, she thinks, as she imagines the sun warming her skin. She pulls her knees in closer, then takes her cell phone from her pocket and texts the school, telling them she’s too sick to return today. Finally she begins to drift, feeling pleased that she didn’t make that call to Kathryn.
SESSION THREE
This Wednesday Adam clearly knows he’s not expected until seven. Gabby is due any minute, and as Hannah gets ready she tells herself this will really be the last Wednesday that she deserts the children. Yes, she likes everyone, and of course she’ll keep in touch with Bridget, but she’s been dealing with this much longer than the others, so her needs are naturally different.
She is pleased to walk into Kathryn’s office and see that Bridget is there before her. Her face has more color, and her eyes sparkle again. They chat about morning sickness, traffic, and the weather.
Flavia and Gail come in at the same time, and Kathryn starts at seven, even though Lizzy is absent.
The women glance around, making sure not to jump in if there is someone who might need to go first.
Flavia finally begins. “This week is the week Dema must go to the court. He begs that I go with him. I cannot say no, but I am very nervous. I feel it in the stomach.”
“Can you talk about why you feel nervous?” Kathryn asks.
She purses her full lips, then lets out a long breath. “I am afraid he will have to go to jail. That is my worse fear. I am also afraid of the newspaper. I think they want to make Dema to be bad, partly because he is different. Then they can say it is not their own kind that does these types of things, but the dark foreigner.”
“Does he have a good lawyer?” Gail asks.
“The one they give to us.”
“And when do you go in?”
“Tomorrow I go.”
“In Cambridge?” Gail asks.
“Yes.”
“Is this his first arrest?” Gail’s questions are proficient, mechanical.
“It is.”
“Does he go to therapy to get help for this?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must tell the lawyer to make it very clear he is getting help.” Gail points a finger, making sure Flavia understands the importance of what is being said. Hannah guesses she is some sort of lawyer.
“Thank you.” Flavia bows her head. “It is also hard because I believe what Dema did was not good, but when you know the person who does this type of thing and you understand that they cannot help it, it makes it all confusing.”
“It’s a horrible position to be in,” Gail says. “But I will say this: if it happens again, no judge is going to be lenient.” Her long nails click.
Hannah is sorry she won’t be back next week to find out what happened. She is about to wish Flavia good luck when Lizzy walks in with her head lowered. She sits on the couch, hunched, clinging to her corner. She doesn’t glance up or smile or apologize for being late. Her skin is sallow. She has aged ten years since last week.
Flavia picks up the tissue box, makes a move to hand it to Lizzy, then withdraws. They all know what’s happened
. Not the details, but the sum of it, the discovering of more lies.
“Lizzy.” Kathryn leans toward her. “Are you all right?”
Lizzy’s fingers grip her sweater. “Just a little tired.”
That’s not the truth, of course, although Hannah wishes it were. The room is quiet, reverent.
“Sometimes,” Hannah says, her voice just above a whisper, “it helps to talk.”
“Thanks,” Lizzy mumbles. Silence again. “I … maybe … I feel like such a fool.” She rubs her palm on the seat of the couch. “I really believed him this time.”
“They know what to do to make us trust them,” Hannah says.
“It hurts.” Lizzy’s voice cracks as she reaches for a tissue. “I go between hating him for doing it and hating myself for being stupid enough to believe him.”
Gail shakes her head slowly. “Not one of us is stupid.”
The small oval clock on the desk ticks. Bridget glances around nervously. Flavia touches Lizzy’s arm. Hannah watches.
“What happened?” Kathryn asks gently.
“I came back home in the middle of the day. I needed some medication for a migraine. He was home, watching … I thought he’d be at work.” Her breath catches.
“Sex addiction can be a harder habit to break than cocaine,” Kathryn says.
Flavia hands Lizzy another tissue. She places one on top of the other, then folds them into squares.
Kathryn waits a few moments. “Are you going to be all right?” she asks.
Silence shrouds the room.
Slowly, carefully, Kathryn begins. “If anyone is open to it, I have an exercise some of you may like to try.”
There are a few nods.
“The first part requires that you rate your marriage on a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest.” She folds her hands. “If you feel comfortable telling the group…”
“A fucking zero,” Bridget jumps in, awkwardly loud, in an attempt to break the mood.
“I’d like you to think about what would make it a one,” Kathryn says.
“Nothing.”
“I know it’s hard, but can you think of anything that might bring it up from a zero?”