“Oh, honey,” Dory whispers. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you. Really. Don’t even think about it, okay? Forget I said anything.”
Standing behind me, she puts both her hands on my shoulders, then leans her forehead against my back. I long to turn around and put my arms around her. I want to tell her how much I wish I could feel good about what she’s doing. I’d give anything if I could stand up at the renewal ceremony in front of her family and our friends and show my support of the vows she’ll be saying. Before I come up with a response, Dory has squeezed my shoulders and scurried down the white-pebbled path, pulling the door shut behind her.
The group meeting goes unusually well, a blessing since I’m distracted after my talk with Dory. In my business, I can’t afford to show it; no one wants to spill his or her guts to a therapist whose mind is a thousand miles away or, worse, who responds with a yawn or a vacant stare. I needed some time to process Dory’s story but didn’t get a chance to; the meeting was abruptly on me. My suspicions are that Son somehow manipulated the whole thing, taking advantage of her loneliness and confusion. Or could Dory have done it herself unintentionally? Maybe she’d gotten overly upset and called Son, and her emotional state caused her to remember the outcome the way she described it to me. Ever since I first met Dory, Son has been her Achilles’ heel. I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand it. Not that I don’t know what she sees in him, the hold he has on her, but that’s a different thing altogether. It astonishes and amuses me now to think of my first days as a therapist, the way I was convinced that I’d finally see all the things I’d never understood before. What a fool I was! If anything, I understand even less now. After years of extensive study and a doctorate on the subject, I know quite a bit about what makes us tick, what motivates us, and what causes us to behave the way we do. But when it doesn’t happen the way it’s supposed to, I’m as perplexed and confused as I was before becoming a so-called expert in human behavior.
I think about it, looking around the women gathered here today, the beginnings of a new group of broken hearts, as Dory calls them. All of the women are going through the process, their divorces not yet finalized. Most of them will finish up by attending a retreat, since the primary focus is on recovery and the rebuilding of lives. For the retreats, I take not only my clients but also referrals from other therapists, though the groups are primarily made up of my clients. Today these women are all mine. I know their stories, but they don’t know one another. I watch them size one another up, glancing around the circle curiously as they balance their plates laden with Dory’s goodies. I see that Joanna Stuckey is talking quietly with Helen Murray, the oldest with the youngest, though it’s doubtful they know that about each other. Or maybe they do. Joanna, in her late sixties, no doubt would have spotted Helen as being the one closest to her daughter’s age, and she probably sat next to her for that reason, even if subconsciously. With that thought, I take a sip of my tea to hide a smile. Dory would laugh if I said that aloud, since she teases me about those kinds of observations. “Better watch out, folks, Madame Freud’s at it again,” she’ll say.
As I think of Dory and her revelation, something strikes me. How many of the women here today would do the same thing she’s done? I’ve sat through session after session with them, listening to their stories of devastation and heartbreak, and it occurs to me for the first time that they’d go back to where they were before if they could. Surely not Joanna, I think. But am I right? I had my doubts about Joanna ever recovering from the shock of discovering that her husband of forty-five years has had another family in another state all this time, but as I watch her chat breezily with Helen and Helen’s friend Sissy, it seems she’s on her way. Yet I wonder if she wouldn’t take her husband back if she could. In spite of her hurt and humiliation, all of Joanna’s life has been dedicated to her family. It’s all she’s ever known. She’d go back, I think, dizzy with the realization.
The others I don’t know well enough yet. Joanna I’ve seen twice a week for four months, but the others have just started coming to me, and summer appointments are always more relaxed, dependent on vacations, visits from relatives, and school starting back, among other factors. Helen Murray, talking with Joanna, is the one I’ve been most concerned about. Of this group, she’s the shakiest. She’s been in an abusive relationship for years but has lacked the courage to break free. As I pick up my material and take a seat in order to get the group started, I’m sure my epiphany was correct: Just as Dory has done, most of the women here today, if given the opportunity, would take their husbands back.
Chapter Five
Over the muted sobs of Helen Murray, I hear a commotion in the reception area down the hall from the consultation room I use for client sessions. I look up from my chair, placed strategically across from the love seat where Helen sits. Helen, pale and haggard, was sitting on the front steps of Casa Loco when I arrived this morning, and she and I have just started our session. She was in the midst of telling me yet again how she’s having to fight the desire to return to her husband. Not once have I heard her use the word “love”; rather, she’s terrified to be on her own. When Helen confessed to her friend Sissy that her husband’s abuse had gone beyond verbal and into pushing and shoving, Sissy got her away from him as fast as she could. Helen had gone directly from an overbearing father to an equally overbearing husband, a young partner in her father’s law firm who was like the son her father always wanted, Helen told me. It’s becoming obvious that she’s a daddy’s girl who married her father’s choice in an effort to please him. I’ve seen hundreds like her, women who’ve always been so pampered and sheltered that they become helpless and frightened without a man in their lives.
Removing a soggy tissue from her eyes, Helen tilts her head in bewilderment at the racket, but I urge her to continue, raising my voice to be heard over the clamor. What on earth can be going on? Etta is not the kind to allow anyone in the waiting area to bully her into giving out an immediate appointment, to insist on seeing me, to demand to know where his or her spouse is, or whatever else could be taking place out there. Through the years we’ve had numerous incidents, but Etta has remained victorious.
Before I can speculate further, Etta’s booming voice comes from the hallway right outside the consultation room. “Hey! Don’t even think about opening that door, you hear me?”
I jump to my feet, the pad I’m holding spiraling downward, papers fluttering. On her last visit, Helen finally admitted that her husband’s temper tantrums had gotten so bad she was more frightened of staying with him than of leaving. When the door is flung open, I expect to see him there, having tracked her down in a rage. While I don’t know Mr. Murray, I do know how to handle this. As the door flies open, I cry out, “Call the police, Etta—now!” Calling the police is the last resort for us, since it disrupts the entire day; usually Etta or I can handle the disturbance and get the offender calmed down and out of Casa Loco by ourselves. This is the first time anyone’s gotten this far past Etta.
When I recognize the man standing in my doorway, his hand on the doorknob and his face dark with anger, I’m too stunned to move. It’s Son Rodgers, and he points a finger at me.
“You, Clare!” he says in a loud voice. “We’re gonna have our little talk, and we’re gonna have it now.” Son’s blue eyes are blazing, and his full-lipped mouth is twisted into a snarl. Behind him, I see Etta lumbering down the hallway and turning the corner to the phone on her desk as she mutters to herself.
I swallow hard as a flush scalds my neck and face. “How dare you come barging into this room! I’m with a client now. Please leave immediately.”
Son jabs in the air with his finger, pointing it at me like a weapon. “Who the hell do you think you are, refusing to return my calls?” he cries. I’d received other angry messages from Son, including one this morning before I left for work. He said it was urgent that he talk to me about Dory; figuring it was another of his ruses, I decided to give him time to cool d
own first. “Guess you don’t care that Dory’s so upset she almost had another breakdown?” Son shouts.
I glance over at Helen, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. “I will not discuss Dory or anything else with you now, Son,” I say between clenched teeth. “I repeat, you need to leave here immediately. I’ll call you when I finish with my client.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you hear me out.” Son’s lips curl into a sneer. “I’ve known all along what would happen with me and Dory once you started all this stuff.” He makes a sweeping motion with his arm, and his gaze falls on Helen Murray huddled on the love seat and blinking at him in a kind of daze. “Sure hope you’re ready for your marriage to end, young lady,” he says to her. “Because I can promise you, this woman here”—he points at me again—“will try and talk you into it, just like she did my wife. Next thing you know, you’ll be going to those retreats of hers, then you can kiss everything goodbye.”
Etta comes to stand in the doorway, mouth set in a firm line and eyes flashing with fury as she glares at Son. “Police on the way,” she announces. To me she whispers tersely, “Sorry he slipped past me. I thought he’d left.”
“You can call the police all you want to, Etta,” Son says, glancing her way, “and they can drag me away, but I’ll be back.” He turns from Etta to me. “I’ll come here, or I’ll come to your house—Mack’s house, I should say—until you hear me out.”
“Then you better get a restraining order when the police get here,” Etta says, standing with her arms folded across her chest as she blocks the doorway. If Son decides to make a run for it before the police arrive, he’ll have to get past her. Towering several inches over my five-foot-three frame, Etta is a formidable African-American woman built as solid as a tree trunk. Today she wears one of her flowing batik shifts in a startling pattern of yellow, green, and black with a matching scarf wrapped like a turban around her head, which makes her appear even taller. Although Son keeps himself in good shape, Etta would be the last person I’d want to push out of my way, if I were him.
I have to make a snap decision before the police get here. I cut my eyes from Etta to Son to Helen Murray before taking a step forward to address Etta.
“Would you call the police back and tell them not to come, that I have the situation under control?” Etta opens her mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand. “And could you show Mr. Rodgers into my office? He’ll wait there until this session is finished.” Without glancing Son’s way, I add, “At that time I’ll give him five minutes to explain himself.”
I’ve called Son’s bluff, and he hesitates as he returns my stare. Finally he shrugs elaborately, and instead of waiting for Etta to escort him, he stomps out of the room and heads down the hall toward my office, yanking the door open.
I lean in close and say quietly to Etta, “Check on him. Make sure the door stays open, okay?”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Etta mutters. I know she wants to say more but won’t in front of a client. She hesitates before leaving but at last turns and follows Son to my office. She let him fool her once; he won’t pull anything on her again, if I know Etta.
After I finish the session and Helen Murray leaves, more composed now in spite of the disturbance, I take a deep breath and walk down the hall to my office, wondering if Son stayed after all. The answer’s obvious when I see Etta standing guard outside the door. I suppress a smile. She’s not happy about my seeing Son, I can tell, but she leaves without protest. Taking a deep breath, I go into my office, where Son is pacing the floor.
As soon as I enter, he walks over without a word and slams the door shut. I experience a slight shiver of fear but brush it off. I am not afraid of him. He’s dramatic and volatile and impulsive, but he’s not dangerous. In spite of his display of anger, I know Son too well to think he’d harm me. He’s never touched Dory or the kids; if anything, it’s the other way around. A couple of times Dory’s gotten so frustrated with him that she’s lost her cool, rare for her. Once she clobbered him with a hard loaf of French bread, swinging it like a baseball bat. And we still laugh about the time she flung a book at him and almost knocked him out, because it was her book on Zen meditation that he’d made fun of once too often. On neither occasion did he fight back or go after her. Although Son and I have always clashed, we go too far back for me to fear him.
I fold my arms and say, “All right, Son. You have exactly five minutes to tell me what’s going on with Dory.”
My calmness seems to infuriate him even more. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” Again the sneer on his face, the blue blaze of his eyes. “You think you’ve got all the answers.”
“Yeah, I do. Now that we’ve established that, let me repeat myself: You’ve got five minutes to tell me why you’re acting like a bigger fool than usual. You come bursting in like a maniac; you scare one of my clients; then you almost get arrested by the police or punched out by Etta. Whom I wouldn’t mess with if I were you, by the way. You’ll be lucky if she lets you leave here without knocking your block off. She takes pride in protecting me and my clients, and she’s not happy that you slipped past her.”
Son waves his hand in the air as though brushing aside a buzzing fly. “Etta Young knows where her bread is buttered. I’m the one who got R.J. his job at the Ford dealership, in case you’ve forgotten. She won’t push me too far.”
“What an important man you are, Andrew.” It’s an old barb, and I experience a surge of satisfaction when he flushes. As a child, Andrew Jackson Rodgers, Jr., was nicknamed Son by his indulgent family. But I’ve always teased him, saying he couldn’t have a better namesake than the ruthless Andrew Jackson, who’s known in these parts for his heartless treatment and displacement of the area’s Native American tribes.
As we glare at each other, it hits me that I’ve fallen back into an old pattern established by Son and me soon after I married Mack. I’m most likely the only female Son Rodgers hasn’t been able to win over by soulful looks from those soft blue eyes, or to charm with his winsome boyishness. His family’s position in this state, his wealth and privilege, his shocking good looks and smooth charm, all those things have always bought him everything he’s ever wanted, won over everyone he’s encountered, including Dory. That I’m not impressed has always bewildered him. A man used to being fawned over by women, Son is both puzzled and threatened when he encounters anyone who’s indifferent to his charms. Our mutual animosity comes out in different ways, hidden in various guises, but it’s always present. This time it’s about Dory. Or maybe, I realize with a shock of understanding, it always has been. Either Dory or Mack, whom both of us loved, and neither wanted the other to have.
“I’ve got no argument with Etta,” Son snaps impatiently. “My beef is with you.”
“Then spit it out. Before you do, please know that normally I’d never reward such preposterous behavior. The only reason I’m hearing you out instead of having the police haul you off—”
He interrupts, pretending to wring his hands in fear. “Yeah, right, I’m shaking in my boots. In case you’ve forgotten, the sheriff is married to a cousin of mine. One of his deputies played baseball with Mack at Bama, and the other lives in one of my houses rent-free. My contribution to law and order in our lovely city.”
Ignoring his interruption, I continue, raising my voice. “The only reason I’m doing this is for Dory. I have no doubt you’ve got the whole police department in your pocket, Mr. Big Shot, but they’d have no choice except to haul you out of here, regardless of who you are. As much as I’d love to see you embarrassed—and God, how I’d love it!—you’ve put Dory through enough. More than enough. And you pulled one over on me, didn’t you? You said that about her having another breakdown because it was a sure way to make me hear you out.”
“Of course, Clare. Whatever you say, Clare. You’re always right, aren’t you, Clare?” When I start toward the door to open it and push him out if I have to, he stops me. “Wait! I wasn’t lying about Dor
y. She got all upset after seeing you Saturday, and that night she had another of those crying episodes. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a breakdown, but it still scared me. Strange, isn’t it, that everything was going great until she saw you, and now she’s upset and confused again?”
“I’m sorry to hear about her having a bad time. But to say I’m the one who upset her is ludicrous, as you well know—”
“She was so happy on our trip, and doing so well! She comes back here one time, and she’s all torn up again.” He waves his hands high, and I take a step backward. “You claim you want the best for her. Huh! That’s a bunch of crap. Being with me is what’s best for her. She was so miserable when we separated that she went to pieces.”
“No. She went to pieces because of all the trauma you’d put her through previous to that. Tell me the real reason you and Dory separated. I want to hear you say it.”
To my surprise, both guilt and sorrow cloud Son’s expression, but he quickly recovers. “I admit that I behaved like an idiot last year. I thought it’d finally be just me and Dory, and I didn’t handle it well when she had a different idea of how she’d spend her time.”
“That’s putting it mildly. You were constantly in her face, demanding her attention and pouting when you didn’t get it. You made last year a nightmare for her.”
“All right, I’ll admit it. I acted the fool, and I drank too much. Is that what you want to hear? Do you feel better now?”
“Acted the fool and drank too much?” I echo in disbelief. “What’s missing? What part of the story are you leaving out?”
Queen of Broken Hearts Page 10