by Debra Kent
When I mentioned it to Roger yesterday, he hit the roof. How dare I sign the contract without consulting him? Where did I come off hiring a fancy carpenter to build an entertainment center when we could buy one for half the price at IKEA? Or better yet, he screamed, he’d build it himself! (Sure. He couldn’t even assemble Pete’s swing set, let along construct an entertainment center.)
He would not let up. At 2 A.M. he was still at it! I finally tore up the contract and yelled: “Fine! You build the friggiti’ entertainment center!” The next thing I know, we’re having the hottest sex we’ve had in months—maybe years—but I was angry the whole time. I even left teeth marks in his shoulder. And I’m still angry. Does every single decision have to be a committee decision?
I continued to be disturbed by Diana’s reappearance, thanks to my darling husband’s decision to hire her as a research assistant. I called my parents and told them what Roger had done. Dad said Roger was “up to his old tricks.”
Mom agreed. “You’d better watch that man,” she told me. She urged me to get one of those video monitoring systems that people use to spy on their nannies. “Forget the camera,” Dad chimed in. “Tell him he can’t do it. He’s got a history. It’s just not appropriate. He’s just setting himself up for another … situation.” Then I heard him mutter, “The rotten bastard.”
I didn’t want to hear that. Three months ago I did, but not now. Not when we’re trying to work things out. I had naively wanted to turn this Diana thing into some sort of healing experience, a chance to fully trust Roger and forgive her. But my father’s words emboldened me.
When I got home tonight I found a vase of creamy pink tulips on the kitchen table. A note: Meet me upstairs. I could hear the water running in the Jacuzzi. I saw two empty wineglasses and a bottle of Merlot. Roger emerged wearing the red silk boxers I’d bought him for our second anniversary.
He slipped off the shorts and silently proceeded to nuzzle my neck from behind. “Where’s Petey?” I said into his chest. “Next door at Hunter’s,” he said, reaching around to unhook my bra. “Lynette said she’d take him for at least an hour, maybe more.”
He bent down and put his lips on my left breast while I watched the top of his blond head move up and down with every lap of his tongue. But I couldn’t relax. “Where is she going to work, exactly?”
Roger continued at my nipple. “Who?”
“You know who. Diana.”
“Shhhhh. Not now. Please.”
I had a choice. I could focus on sex, enjoy myself for an hour, get closer to my husband, and demonstrate to both of us that I had transcended all the Diana crap. Or I could pull my breast out of my husband’s mouth and decide that standing my ground was more important than sex, intimacy, transcendence, or chocolate chip cookies. I chose sex, and I’m glad I did, but I’m still mad. Diana starts on Monday and I find myself wondering where I should hide a nanny-cam.
’Til next time,
April 30
There seems to be some movement on the lawsuit. Alyssa’s lawyer told Roger’s lawyer that he’s planning to gather some damning depositions for the stupid sexual harassment case. I say, enough with the friggin’ depositions! This is torture! At this point I just want to get it over with. Even if it turns out he’s guilty, I just wish it would end.
Right now I have to focus on repairing my marriage. After all the crap we’ve been through, pulling together is my number one priority. I know how strange that must sound coming from me—so Tammy Wynette, so Laura Schlesinger. Even though I’ve always wanted to keep it together for Petey, I wasn’t fully committed to Roger in my heart. Word of his transgressions would have been enough to get me fantasizing (or more) about other men, whether it was Eddie or Ben. Now I realize I have to grow up. I’ve got to rise above Roger’s mistakes and my own destructive impulses. I have to believe that Roger can change. I’ve tried to talk to Betsy about this, but I’ve got to say, she’s not giving me a lot of support right now. It’s almost as if she wants my marriage to fail. This may be the biggest spiritual and emotional challenge of my life.
Diana hasn’t made it easy. I can’t stand having her in the house. I go into the kitchen, she’s sitting at the counter (my counter), drinking coffee from the belly-shaped mug Roger bought me when I was pregnant with Petey. (She had nine million mugs to choose from. Why that one?!) I pass by Roger’s study, and the door’s closed, and I can hear them giggling or talking in hushed tones. I pull out of the driveway, and she’s pulling in, waving and smiling brightly. One day I came home and found them in the family room watching Xena together. (What is it with guys and that show, anyway? Roger claims he likes it for the martial arts, but Dale says its the lesbian subtext.) When I walked in, Roger obviously anticipated my concern, because the first thing he said was, “We’re just taking a break. It’s been a grueling day.”
How grueling is it to sit at a computer?!? It’s not like he’s digging ditches or working on an assembly line. Give me a break! Oh no. There I go again. I’ve got to get a handle on this negative thinking. God, give me strength!
’Til next time,
May 7
When I came home from work today, I found Diana and Roger at his computer looking at pornography. Roger fumbled for the mouse, presumably to put the computer to sleep, but he was too late. I’d already seen the picture, a brunette stimulating herself with a sex toy. I wanted to scream, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” but knew that would only make matters worse. So I tried the bemused approach: “Researching the play, Roger?”
He swiveled around. His mouth worked crazily, but no sound came out. His face was flushed and sweaty. “Actually, we’re taking a little break.”
Diana giggled. “Roger insisted there was a woman on this site that looked exactly like me.” She pointed to the brunette. “But I don’t agree. I think my breasts are a lot nicer.” She looked at me.
“Don’t you?” She arched her back like a ’40s pinup and laughed. I didn’t find it amusing. “Come on, baby. It’s all in fun.”
I walked out, grabbed Petey, and left the house. I wound up at my parents, and called Roger from there. I told him that Diana had better be gone by the time I got home. She was. And Roger was sound asleep. I got Petey to bed, then woke Roger up and insisted he fire her. “You’re overreacting,” he mumbled. “We were taking a break. It’s just a picture. Come on. Get into bed. I missed you.”
If there are two words in the English language that make me absolutely homicidal, it’s “You’re overreacting.” It’s almost as bad as “You’re too sensitive.” Growing up, that’s all I ever heard from my mother. Whenever I expressed any strong emotion, the reaction was, “You’re too sensitive. You’re overreacting.” That’s probably one of the reasons why I became a therapist. In therapy, no emotion is dismissed as an overreaction.
“You’ve got to trust me,” Roger said. “We were just looking. We weren’t aroused. She didn’t touch me. I didn’t touch her. It was just amusing, that’s all.”
I didn’t sleep in my bed that night. And I’m still mad at Roger.
’Til next time,
May 14
I’ve got a new problem at work. Her name is Cadence Bradley (what kind of a name is Cadence, anyway?!). She’s a clinical psychologist, and the Westfield Center wooed her as soon as her husband was hired by the medical school. She (grudgingly) agreed to give up her job in D.C. to follow him here. Cadence isn’t just a big fish in a small pond, she’s orca in a goldfish bowl. The partners are falling all over themselves trying to please her. It’s sickening. They made her a senior partner in wellness, so she’ll be voting on administrative decisions and getting a share of the center’s profits when she reels in new clients. They also gave her Penny Lyon’s old office—the one with the private bathroom and fireplace.
Already I hate her. It took me three years to become a senior partner in wellness. She got the title merely by accepting the job offer. Cadence is tall and big-boned, with coarse, cropped black hair and a small sca
r over her lip that gives her face a perpetual sneer. No makeup, trimmed, buffed fingernails.
The day I met her she was wearing a suit the color of a Mary Kay Cadillac. Sounds tacky, but it was truly gorgeous on her—and expensive-looking. While I’m rifling through the racks at T.J. Maxx, she’s shopping at Bergdorf’s. Next to Cadence, I felt like a fat, frizzy dwarf. Suddenly all my fashion mistakes came clearly into focus. I noticed the ink marks on my fingertips where my (brand-new) fountain pen had leaked. I regarded my toenails with alarm (what had possessed me to paint them with blue glitter?). I ran a hand through my hair and found that patch I can’t straighten no matter how much styling gel I glob on.
When I reached out my hand to greet her, she gave me a limp-fish handshake and barely listened while I talked about the eating disorders program I’m developing with Dale. Her expression fluctuated between bored detachment and bewilderment, and after I’d blathered on and on, her only response was, “I’m sensitive to perfume.” She flared her cavernous nostrils imperiously. “Go a little more lightly tomorrow.”
Now I’ve got this incessant monologue in my skull that goes something like, Who the hell does she think she is? I’ll show her! Maybe I’ve never chaired a congressional subcommittee, and maybe I’ve never been interviewed by the Today Show, and maybe I make a tenth of what Cadence Bradley pulls down every year, but I’m no slouch. I developed the center’s early childhood program. I’ve been published in the most respected journals. I have the most referrals in the office. I want to grab her by those quarterback shoulders of hers and say, “Look, Miss Fancy-Washington-D.C.-Senate-Subcommittee-Big-Shot, I’m just as smart as you are. Maybe you’re taller and younger than me, but I bet I could kick your ass. And has anyone ever told you that you look a little like Henry Kissinger? Because you do!”
The thing is, I must admit that if I were the boss, I’d put her, not me, in charge of the center’s eating disorders clinic. It doesn’t take a genius to see she’s better qualified than I am to head up the project; I happen to know that she was instrumental in devising professional guidelines for the diagnosis and treatment of anorexia and bulimia.
I’m scheduled to unveil the preliminary plans for the center’s new eating disorders clinic at next Thursday’s management meeting. I’m curious (no, scared) to see how Cadence responds. If my instincts are right, she’ll either gun down the project or commandeer it.
Then there’s my other headache, Diana. I’m drawing on all my spiritual resources to remain sane and serene, but she’s practically living here now. I leave for work in the morning, she’s pulling into my driveway. I come home in the afternoon, she’s sitting in my kitchen or upstairs with my husband. Yesterday I left Petey alone for three minutes and came back to find him in her lap while she played “little piggy” with his feet! I wanted to yank her hair.
I also realize that unless I have evidence that she and Roger are fooling around, I really have no case. Their friendship pre-dates me. They were college drinking buddies. They backpacked through Europe together. Anything I do now will only drive a wedge between me and my husband, and I don’t want to do that. As it is, Pete heard me yelling at Roger last week. At breakfast the other day, he asked me, “Does Daddy have to leave again?”
The question made me sick. I feel like I’ve put this poor kid through the wringer. Why should I do it again? Because Roger hired his best friend as a researcher? Yeah, I hate her, but that’s my problem and I’ve got to deal with it.
I may also have to deal with something else, something I’d never anticipated. As I was dressing for work this morning, Roger stared at me from the bed, then suggested we let Petey sleep for an extra twenty minutes.
I watched his reflection in the mirror. He was on his belly, head perched on his hands, naked except for the white towel draped over his butt. I’d already showered, dried my hair, and put on my makeup. Normally I would have asked for a rain check—I didn’t want to get all sticky and sweaty—but didn’t feel comfortable leaving a sexually frustrated husband alone in the house with Diana. I knelt by the side of the bed. “How ’bout I just take care of you?” I checked to make sure the door was locked. “You can do me later. Tonight, I said.”
He rolled over onto his back. “Have your way with me.”
After he came, I admitted to him that I hadn’t wanted to leave him and his blue balls in Diana’s clutches. “Funny you should mention that,” he said, calling out to me from the bathroom. He flushed. “If there’s anyone she’s interested in, it’s probably you.”
My heart smacked against my ribs. I must have heard wrong. I waited for the toilet to stop roaring. “Say that again?”
Roger walked back into the bedroom and pulled his underwear drawer open. “You heard me. I think she’s got the hots for you.”
Now this was news. And it made me queasy. “What makes you think that?”
“The way she stares at your ass when you’re stomping out of the room.” Roger laughed and yanked on his jeans. “Don’t tell me you haven’t suspected something.” Then he leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. “I’ve got to get Petey up. Thanks. I’ll make it up to you tonight.”
The thing is, he never did. And I can’t stop thinking about Diana.
I’ve got to go get some lunch.
’Til next time,
May 21
In search of guidance, I went to church. I know how bizarre that must sound: a therapist seeking guidance from a pastor? But something compelled me—literally took me by the hand and pulled me to St. Mark’s. Reverend Lee was in his office, and when I appeared at the door feeling shy and awkward, he bounded out of his seat and greeted me like an old, dear friend (in truth, I’ve seen him perhaps twice in the last six months, both times at the supermarket).
I spilled the whole sordid story of my marriage, Roger’s philandering, my own affair with Eddie, Diana’s unwelcome reappearance in my life. “You are a brave woman,” he told me, reaching for my hand across the table. “And you have come to the right place to find the power of forgiveness.” He suggested we pray together, and I agreed. He held my hands and asked God to bring peace and loving kindness to Roger and me, and by the time he was done, I felt as if a brick had been lifted off my collarbone. I could breathe again.
As for work: You think you’re emotionally evolved, successful, confident … then someone like Cadence Bradley appears, and all the old insecurities and unresolved issues are flushed out and exposed. Now I’m convinced everyone in the office hates me. Here’s my evidence:
Monday: Walked into a staff meeting. No one but the secretary greeted me. I’d brought brownies for everyone, but no one thanked me. Cadence didn’t look at me once during the whole meeting. In fact, when I offered some ideas on boosting our referrals from physicians at Burrows Memorial, she actually started talking over my voice on an entirely different subject, as if I wasn’t even there. I felt like a ghost. It was eerie and disturbing. I stared at the side of her head as she talked, at that single flared nostril and pearl earring, and imagined a malevolent insect burrowing its way into her ear and chewing her brain tissue.
Tuesday: Michael Davis, the marketing guy we hired in January, stopped making eye contact with me. I walked in, and he looked down. Whenever I talked to him he looked away, or responded with something curt and cold. Example: He recommended we put Pam Reis-ter on the board of directors. Now, I happen to know for a fact that Pam is a flake, a contentious and confused woman who manages to alienate everyone on every committee and board she’s ever been on. She’s also loaded, which is why (the only reason why) she is asked to serve on all these boards and committees. At a board nominating committee, I said that Pam Reister would be a liability, based on my own experience serving on the United Way board with her. Mike looked straight at Leo Chambers, the chairman of the board, and said something like, “I put no stock in secondhand information. Pam Reister would be perfect.” What secondhand information? I served with her on the United Way board! Why wasn’t anyone listening
to me? I wanted to scream! (Now I want to kick myself for spending so much money on gifts for Mike’s new baby!)
Wednesday: I discovered that Cadence Bradley has been named director of the eating disorders clinic. She’s supervising it! Dale and I will report to her, and our first meeting is set for this week. I decided to pull a power play; I had Rita, her secretary, pencil me in for Thursday afternoon, then sent Cadence this e-mail: “I’ll see you in my office on Thursday at 3 P.M. to discuss the clinic. Look forward to hearing your ideas. I’ll contact Dale and let him know about the meeting.”
Thursday: 3 P.M. came and went. No Cadence. I could have called or simply walked over to her office, but decided to work at my desk instead. At 4:30, the phone rang. It was Cadence. She said, “I’ve had meetings all day so I couldn’t possibly meet. Would you buzz Rita to reschedule for next week? In my office.” Damn her!
’Til next time,
May 28
Bad chemistry. That’s what I’ve got with Cadence. It’s primitive, this immediate revulsion she seems to have for me. I don’t know what set her against me so quickly. She’s organized, linear, elegant, no-nonsense; I’m free-flowing, spunky, emotional—maybe she sensed this difference between us and reacted viscerally. I dread going to work. God, it’s only been two weeks since she’s arrived. How could my life change so rapidly in such a short period of time?
The latest episode in the Cadence saga: The Kirby Institute has agreed to partner with the Center on a project to identify and treat depression in high school students, a program I helped initiate two years ago. How do I know about Kirby’s decision? Because I read about it in the local paper! And who was quoted in that article? Cadence Bradley! I stared at that article a long time, feeling my insides twist and clench.
Instead, I called Cadence. I said, “I’d appreciate it if you would keep me informed of significant news. The Kirby partnership, for instance.” Silence. I continued, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I was the original contact on that project. I cultivated their CEO, and I wrote the proposal. I think someone should have told me when the deal was signed.” More silence. Finally, Cadence said, “We don’t have the time to call you whenever someone signs a deal with the center.”