by Sylvia True
“If he took a lie detector test and passed.”
“Good,” Kathryn says. “Is that something Michael would be willing to do?”
Bridget’s eyes widen. “Really? They give those? I was joking.”
“It’s often a recommended treatment for sex addicts. I can give you the number of someone.”
Bridget looks away, uncomfortable. Hannah understands. The idea of sitting in some room with your husband as they paste wires to him and ask embarrassing questions is not something she’d ever want to do either.
“I’d rate my marriage at an eight,” Gail says.
“And what would make it a nine?” Kathryn asks, as Bridget stares at Gail in disbelief.
“Jonah and I have spent the last year going through so much therapy. We haven’t been on a real vacation together in two years. I think we should plan a trip to Europe.”
“Excellent,” Kathryn says.
“An eight?” Bridget asks. “For real?”
“It’s taken a lot of work to get there,” Gail tells her.
Bridget looks unconvinced. Flavia nods as if she’s listening, but she keeps turning to check on Lizzy, who seems detached, as if she’s alone in the middle of a frozen cornfield.
“What about you?” Kathryn asks Hannah.
She’s been paying attention to Lizzy as well. “A two.” It’s the first number that comes to her.
“And what would make it a three?”
Hannah doesn’t want to play this game. But she doesn’t want to be rude either. “I think it’s just going to take a lot of time.” It’s a vague nonanswer.
“Time is a very important component,” Kathryn says. “Recovery can be a long process.”
“It’s a lifetime commitment,” Gail adds.
“Lizzy, is there anything you can think of that might help your relationship?” Kathryn asks.
“Maybe being twenty years younger.”
“How would that help?” Kathryn asks.
“I could compete with what he likes to look at.”
“Don’t,” Bridget says. “Don’t compare yourself. Porn isn’t real. Those girls are skanks. You wouldn’t want to look like them.”
“She’s right,” Hannah says. “Porn isn’t real. It’s a way to escape, to avoid dealing with an intimate relationship.”
“That’s what makes me so sad.” Lizzy’s deep brown eyes shimmer with tears. “That he doesn’t want to have an intimate relationship with me.”
“It’s because he can’t,” Hannah says. “He probably has no idea how to do it.”
“So does that mean our whole marriage has been a lie? If he’s not capable now, he wasn’t five years ago, or fifteen years ago. I thought we had something.”
“It’s not that black and white,” Hannah says. “There were probably times he wasn’t consumed with his addiction and you did connect.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I wanted to have children, and we couldn’t. For years I’ve told myself that that was okay, that I’ve been fortunate to have a job I love and to be in a fulfilling marriage. And now I find out it’s all a bunch of shit.”
“Not all of it,” Gail says sympathetically. “Even if it seems that way now.”
“It’s lonely.” Lizzy’s voice is barely audible.
Flavia hands over another tissue.
“When they’re living in their addiction, you are alone. At least in your marriage,” Hannah says. “I know it’s not much, but you have us.”
“Sometimes, don’t you guys think we should just go out and sleep with anyone we want? Screw the rules.” Bridget’s knees bounce.
“I think that would only exacerbate our situations,” Gail says. “Then we’d have our own secrets and guilt to deal with.”
“I wasn’t saying we should keep it a secret.” Bridget grins.
“Revenge is never productive.” Gail wags a finger.
“They broke their vows,” Bridget says. “And when they do that, I say all bets are off.”
“We all change throughout our lives.” Gail looks directly at Bridget. “Should we always be reevaluating?”
“Yeah, maybe we should.”
“What about if your spouse gets Alzheimer’s?” Gail asks.
“That would be a different group,” Bridget retorts.
Flavia toys with a few strands of hair as if she’s looking for split ends. “Dema is a different man from that I thought I married, so I do not know what to do.” Her face turns pink. “I thought to feel better, I should have sex with another man.”
“Self-esteem is very important,” Kathryn says. “It can get shattered and damaged in your situations. Are there other things you can think of that might help?”
Flavia pulls a makeup pouch out of her bag. “Sometimes I paint my lips and cheeks. Then I walk down the street with my big heels, my head high, and feel like I am worth the million bucks.”
Hannah glances at Lizzy again. She’s still withdrawn. “I think Flavia has a good point. It doesn’t have to be makeup, but doing something to pamper yourself. Buying some clothes, or getting a manicure.”
Flavia holds up her lipstick and nudges Lizzy’s elbow. She perks up a little.
“Here.” Flavia hands over the makeup.
Lizzy takes it, opens it, and smiles. “It’s a pretty color.”
“Try it,” Flavia encourages, and takes out a mirror.
“No thanks.” Lizzy gives it back. “But I think I will go out and get some new makeup this weekend.”
“It’s interesting how we use makeup as kind of a mask to hide behind,” Gail proselytizes. “Almost like a Band-Aid, as if we’re trying to hide the wound.”
“I disagree,” Hannah says. “Band-Aids get a bad rap. I get that they don’t fix anything, but they do the job they’re meant to do. They help the healing process, and if that sometimes means lipstick or high heels or a new dress, then I say go for it. Let’s dress up next week. Wear whatever makes us feel good.”
Flavia holds her shoulders high. “I will wear my red dress.”
“I don’t know what I’ll wear,” Bridget says. “But count me in.”
“It will be black and pearls for me.” Of course, now Hannah must come back, at least one more week. But if it helps Lizzy feel even a tiny bit better, then it’s worth it.
“Mine will be a surprise.” Lizzy smiles for the first time tonight.
Hannah looks at Gail, who says, “I’ll think about it.”
Kathryn glances at the clock, then begins to wind down the group. Lizzy has come out of her corner a little and isn’t as slouched. Bridget’s knees aren’t bouncing, and Hannah is oddly relieved she won’t be quitting after all.
Gail
Gail steps out of the shower and quickly dries herself, avoiding looking in the mirror. She can feel she’s put on fifteen pounds. It’s Friday morning, and she will start her diet today.
Jonah left early to meet with a colleague about the paper he’s working on. She is so pleased he’s started to write again. It’s a healthy habit. From her walk-in closet, she picks a dark blue suit and a white blouse. She touches the outfit she bought for the dinner at the Harvard Club. She will also wear it to next Wednesday’s group. Of course it’s silly, this whole idea of getting dressed up, and it’s certainly not the type of thing she goes in for, but in the spirit of camaraderie and solidarity, she’s going to go along. She pictures Lizzy, how drawn and sad she looked. There but for the grace of God go I.
The zipper on her skirt doesn’t close all the way, but the jacket covers the flaw. She will have an orange and some grapes for breakfast, a fat-free yogurt for lunch, and a salad for dinner. On the way out of the bedroom, she passes the large tapestry armchair. She picks up Jonah’s light blue sweater, one she gave him. As she folds it, she gets a whiff of roses. She brings the sweater to her nose. Although the scent is faint, it’s distinctly perfume, and not one she uses.
She feels sluggish as she walks down the hallway to the room they have deemed the libra
ry. Its wall-to-wall bookcases hold everything from law reviews to fairy tales. A long desk sits in front of the window. She opens her laptop and does a search for perfume smells on sweaters. Most of the sites explain how to get rid of the smells, but one site has what she’s looking for. It suggests that you first familiarize yourself with the scent of your husband’s regular clothes. Most important, you should not be able to smell someone else’s perfume on his underwear.
In the laundry room, she finds a pair of his white underpants. She picks them up by the waistband and sniffs. There’s a faint odor of detergent, mixed with some less pleasant smells, but definitely nothing like his sweater. Relieved, she’s ready to smell all his dirty clothes just to be sure. When she’s finished, she’s convinced that she overreacted. He’d probably worn the sweater on a humid day, sat in an office with someone who had on far too much perfume, and the fibers absorbed the fragrance. Woolen fabric is known for its ability to attract scents, a fact she’s heard in a number of trials.
She’s half an hour late for work. Barbara has three briefs for her to sign before she’s even had a chance to sit.
“You’re due in court at ten o’clock,” Barbara says as she places the papers on the desk.
“I have five minutes.” Gail is terse, irritated with herself for being late. “I had some business at home to attend to.”
“I’m sorry.” Barbara fiddles with her light blue scarf, the same color as Jonah’s sweater. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“What kind of perfume do you wear?” Gail asks.
Barbara looks confused as she keeps fidgeting. “Perfume?” she asks.
“Yes,” Gail answers.
“Uh … normally none. But if I do, White Linen.”
“Does it linger on your clothes?”
“I haven’t really noticed.”
“What about if you’re out somewhere, say a restaurant that uses a lot of garlic. Do you notice that on your clothes?” She looks into Barbara’s blue eyes. They also seem like the color of Jonah’s sweater, insipid and irksome. Why had she ever thought it would look good with his light skin?
“I’ll try to be more mindful of it. Is there something that’s bothering you?” Barbara asks.
Gail waves her hand. “No, nothing in particular. I’ve been wondering about some evidence.” She pauses. “Court evidence.”
“Yes, of course.” Barbara backs toward the door. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?”
Gail stands and takes her robe from its hanger, then reaches for her purse. “What I’d like is for you to go to Macy’s and buy a bottle of rose-scented perfume.” She hands Barbara three twenties. “And don’t worry about the cost. Get the one you think is best.”
She takes the money. “Would you like me to do this now?”
“Is something the matter?” Gail asks. Barbara seems skittish. Granted Gail isn’t in the most pleasant of moods, but she hasn’t behaved in a way that would, on any normal day, unnerve the woman who’s been her PA for seventeen years.
“It’s nothing.” Barbara picks a dying leaf from the plant.
“Meaning it is something. Out with it.”
Barbara looks at her gold watch, a present from Gail. “Another letter,” she says quietly.
“Why didn’t you tell me when I first came in?”
“I was going to, but … you seemed preoccupied. I didn’t want to bother you with anything more.”
“From the same girl?”
“Yes.”
Gail loosens her skirt a little, then zips her robe. “No return address, I assume?”
“None.”
“I will speak to Jonah. I think a harassment order is the next step.”
“Would you like me to shred it?”
“Yes.” She sits. Her hip hurts. She should be walking into the courtroom. But she feels light-headed, as if she’s been under water too long. It could be low blood sugar. Or possibly high blood pressure, even though she did take Atenolol this morning. “No, don’t shred it. Bring it to me.”
Barbara scoots out, returns with the letter, and hands it to Gail, trying to keep her distance.
Gail reads the first paragraph.
I’m so sorry to have to write a letter like this. I always swore to myself I would never get involved with a married man. I wouldn’t do that to another woman. But falling in love is a game changer.
What a silly young woman. Gail opens her bottom desk drawer and takes out a Kit Kat. The handwriting in the letter is neat, not indicative of any sort of mental illness, but it’s hard to tell with only one sample. What Gail is sure of, though, is that she cannot keep receiving this sort of nonsense at work. It’s too distracting. She will speak to Jonah tonight, ask him for the girl’s full name. Then, even though he’ll protest and tell her he’ll take care of it, she will get a harassment order stating that this must cease. Gail licks the chocolate from her fingers and heads into court.
Bridget
It’s nearly noon when Bridget wakes up on Friday. It took over two hours to fall asleep when she came home from work. She was dizzy and nauseated. Pregnancy and night shifts don’t go well together. She gets up to pee and hears Michael playing guitar in the living room. With the band, part-time landscaping, part-time construction work, and random hours with UPS, he’s not usually home during the day. It would probably be best to hide under the covers, but if she doesn’t put something in her stomach, she’s going to dry heave.
She walks downstairs, and he stops playing.
“You want me to make you breakfast?” he asks. He still has no idea she’s pregnant. She’s waiting for the right moment to tell him. Not a romantic, let’s-build-a-family moment, more like a fuck-you moment.
“Nope,” she answers. “Just having toast.”
They both stand and watch the toaster. She tugs at her long T-shirt and looks at her belly. There’s a tiny bulge, nothing noticeable.
“You should go back to bed,” he says. “You look exhausted.”
No shit. “I’m fine.”
“You want to do something this afternoon?” He rinses his coffee cup.
“Not really.”
“The Avengers is playing at the Premium cinema. They have great seats.”
She’s about to say no, go fuck yourself, but she thinks of movie theater popcorn and wants it more than she wants to knee Michael in the balls. This must be what they mean by a craving, because even as her toast pops up, she can only think of extra butter on popcorn.
“Sure. I’ll go.” She has no interest in the movie, but Premium tickets come with all the popcorn you can eat.
“It starts in like half an hour.” He reaches over to touch her shoulder.
“I’ll be ready in two seconds.” She ducks under his arm and leaves her toast on the counter. Upstairs, she puts on an old pair of jeans and a black top.
On the drive there, he chatters about how much he’s wanted to see this movie and how happy he is that they’re doing something together. She just keeps saying, “Yep.”
They pick two of the large center seats. About ten other people, three who are alone, are dotted throughout the theater. The previews take forever, and she’s already finished with her first bag. She stands to get another.
“They serve here,” Michael tells her.
It might be five minutes until someone comes by, and she needs more now. “I’d rather get my own.”
After her second bag, there have already been at least ten fights on the screen. She likes Captain America and Robert Downey Jr., and now that her craving is gone for the moment, she can watch. But the plot doesn’t interest her. She turns to look at Michael. He’s transfixed and smiling.
She pokes his side.
He looks at her, grins, and turns back to the screen. Did he think that was a friendly nudge? She pokes him again.
“What?” he whispers, not turning this time.
“I want to go home.” That will piss the shit out of him.
“Bridge,” he whi
spers. “The movie just started.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like it.”
“Shush. I’m not leaving yet.”
“Then I’m going to keep talking.”
“Quiet,” someone chides from a few rows back. Michael tenses, embarrassed. Good, she thinks.
“Take me home,” she says.
“For God’s sake, stop it. You’re behaving like a child.”
“I’m getting more popcorn,” she announces.
When she returns, she puts the bag on Michael’s tray, jiggles the straw in her drink, then finally sits.
“What is with you?” Michael whispers.
“You really want to know?” she asks.
“Come on, keep it down,” the man from the back scolds again.
Michael shakes his head. At least he’s not enjoying the movie anymore.
She finishes her third bag, feeling stuffed, uncomfortable, and queasy.
“I need to go home and puke,” she says.
“No wonder.” Michael punches the armrest. “Just use the bathroom here.”
“I’m not throwing up in some gross movie theater bathroom. I want to go home.”
“Come on, you two,” the man says. “Show some respect.”
Michael turns. “Sorry,” he tells him.
“Yeah, apologize to him. Be nice to some stranger, but treat the woman you’re supposed to love like dirt.”
“Bridge, what is with you?”
“Maybe you should have worn a condom the last time you fucked me,” she says, at the exact time there’s a lull in the action.
“Okay, that’s it,” the man says, and stands.
“Don’t bother,” Michael says. “We’re leaving.” He yanks Bridget up and practically pushes her up the aisle.
In the lobby, he holds on to her arms and stares at her. “What the hell is your problem?”
She looks at the concession stand. She’s dying of thirst. “I need a lemonade.”
He follows her. “If this is your way of trying to make my life a living hell, good job. But it’s not gonna work, because I’m just not gonna go out with you again.”
She orders a large drink. “You’ve made my life a living hell.”