by Teri Emory
__________
I’m dozing in bed when I hear Jim’s key in the door. I’ve changed into a pair of flannel pajamas I found in one of the drawers. The shopping bag with the sexy nightgown is hanging on the doorknob.
“You should have gone to sleep,” he says softly as he walks into the bedroom. “Don’t you have patients in the morning?”
“I slept a little,” I say. “Did you eat anything?” Sleep, food, any topic except . . .
“A hot pretzel from the cart on the corner,” He sits down next to me. “I have one question,” he says.
“Just one?” I say with a smile.
“It’s a request, actually.”
“Anything,” I say.
“I love you, Beth. I love the life we have. This may sound idiotic to you, but can you tell me what . . . what it means to you to be married to me? I need to hear it from you.”
“Everything,” I say, without hesitation. “We’ve grown up together. I can’t imagine my life without you.”
He takes my hand in his. Tears well in his eyes. “Do you remember the night, a short while after Adam died, when we argued about going to see Dr. Moros? I didn’t want to continue with the sessions, and you were so angry at me.”
“I thought you needed the sessions as much as I did. I was glad that I kept seeing him, and I missed having you there with me. Why did you stop going?”
“I’m sorry I dropped out. And sorry if I disappointed you. But sitting in Dr. Moros’s office made me anxious.”
“Anxious? I find him so comforting. Healing.”
“It wasn’t him. The first few sessions were all right. I actually felt better after we spoke to him. But the last time I went, when we talked about Adam’s death, it made me remember—emotionally remember—how I felt when my parents died. I walked out of the session with a strange feeling.”
“Strange? In what way?”
“You and I left his office together. You dropped me off at the station so I could get into the city. It was already past rush hour; I was alone on the train. And suddenly, I was gripped by a cold terror—I actually remember shivering. The sense of loss overtook me. You once told me that Dr. Moros says that many people miss the main idea of their own lives. Well, I thought as I sat on that train that I had stumbled upon the controlling, underlying theme of my life: I love people, I lose them. Nothing that means anything to me can last.”
We both start to cry. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you talk to Dr. Moros?” I say.
“It scared me,” Jim says. “In a way, I felt that saying the words would make it real, as if speaking about it would breathe life into my worst fears, turn my nightmare into reality. And the worst part was that with Adam, I felt like a complete failure. The whole time he was sick, I was powerless. I was his father, I loved him, and I could do nothing. I was guilty about how much time I spend at work. Great, successful businessman, who can’t keep his son from ending his own life.”
“You’ve always had your family in mind. Everything you’ve built, it’s all for us. You’ve given us all a wonderful life. Adam was proud to be your son.”
“In the end, though, when he needed us most, I was incompetent. During all of his treatment, when we talked to doctors and drug counselors, you were in your own milieu, you seemed to understand what was going on in a way that I couldn’t. You’re a shrink, at least you spoke the language.”
“But not well enough to save him,” I say. “Jim, Adam had his own demons. You know that. There was nothing more either of us could do for him. You’re a good father. Look at Nicole—she’s healthy and happy. And Adam was, too, most of his life.”
Jim nods weakly. “That’s what I tell myself, every day.”
“Why tonight, Jim? What made you want to talk about Adam tonight?”
He takes a deep breath and gets up from the bed, his back to me. He walks a few steps, then turns to face me.
“When you told me about Andrew, the cold terror came back. I thought, ‘I’ll lose Beth, too.’ Further confirmation that the main idea of my life is loss.”
“I’m not leaving you, my love. Not ever.”
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “No regrets then? You’re sure you’re married to the right man?”
I get on my feet and walk to him, put my arms around his shoulders. I kiss him, passionately. “You’ll do,” I say, and he smiles.
“What’s in there?” he says, pointing to the shopping bag on the doorknob.
“Just a little slinky black number I picked up today. Want to see it on me?”
“Dr. Gillian,” he says. “That sounds like exactly the right kind of therapy.”
__________
Driving back to Connecticut on almost no sleep, I call Nicole. She never takes early classes.
She can tell I’m on the cell phone.
“You’re using that hands-free thing, I hope, Mom,” she says.
“Of course, sweetheart. Thanks for your concern.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to work. Dad and I had a date in the city last night and I stayed in town with him.”
“You two are adorable. I thought old married people didn’t have dates anymore.”
“You’d be surprised. Creaky bones and all, we still can manage a little romance from time to time.”
“Enough, Mom. I promise not to call you old anymore if you promise not to give me anymore details of your date with Dad. What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about your plan to study abroad. Is your application done?”
“Almost. I have to get some teacher recommendations and finish filling out all the forms. I guess this means I should be taking my French class a little more seriously.”
“Dad and I would love to visit you in France.”
“When you come over, can I stay in a nice hotel with you? I hear the dorms where they make the American students live are really crummy.”
“You’re not even there yet, and you’re complaining about the accommodations?”
“I spoke to some people who were in the program last year. They said about a thousand people share each bathroom, and the dorm rooms are freezing all the time.”
“Yes, but you’ll be in Paris. For a whole semester. A lot of girls your age would be very happy to live abroad, crowded bathrooms, cold dorms and all. You know, when I lived in Rome . . .”
“Okay, okay. Please don’t start with one of your stories about the deprivations of your youth. I know how fortunate I am to have rich parents.”
“I was hardly deprived. I thought I was the luckiest person on earth to be in Italy.”
“Just kidding, Mom. I can’t wait to go. But what will you say if I call home and announce that I have a French boyfriend?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What if I say, ‘Mom, I’ve met the man of my dreams. His name is Jacques and he wants me to travel all over Europe with him and live in his château?’”
I smile, thinking that there’s a world of things my daughter will never know about me.
“I’d be ecstatic for you,” I tell her. “Your father, however, may have a somewhat different reaction.”
__________
Madeline Foster cancelled her last two appointments with me. Yesterday, she left a message asking me to call her at work.
I review my notes from her last session. She had talked about her husband. “When I married Bill, I thought there was nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for me,” she had said. “And I still feel that way. But day to day, there’s nothing going on between us.”
“Nothing?” I said.
“Oh, he’s pleasant enough. We don’t argue or anything. Of course, he’s at work most of the time. At least, that’s where he says he is.”
“And?”
She was q
uiet, looking down at her hands.
“Madeline?” I said.
“I think he’s having an affair. No, I know he is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s behaving the way he did the last time it happened.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You never mentioned an affair before.”
“It was a long time ago, when I was still in advertising. I was working long hours, and Bill just hated that. Well, you can understand. He’d get home and there’d be no dinner for him and the kids were with babysitters all the time. We fought non-stop. Anyway, he developed a sudden interest in golf. He’d get up before dawn every weekend morning and we wouldn’t see him until late afternoon. One Saturday, I noticed he had left his wallet at home, and to be nice, I drove my car to the golf course to give it to him. I found him sitting in the bar with his arm around a very pretty young woman. Then I saw him kiss her.”
“What did you do?”
“I just left. I drove home and waited for him. As soon as I saw him, I burst into tears. I cried all day, and finally he said that he’d end it. And he did, I know he did. And I promised him I’d leave my job, and take better care of him and the kids. That’s when I went back to school to become a legal secretary.”
“You must have felt so betrayed,” I said. “How did you go about resolving things between you?”
Madeline looked confused. “Resolving things? I just told you, the day I found out, he swore he’d end things with her, and he did. We never talked about it again.”
“Never? Did you talk to anyone else? A therapist? A friend?”
She shook her head. “You’re the first therapist I’ve ever seen. And I don’t really have friends I would talk to about this sort of thing.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you know, I’m so busy, with work and the kids. And when I’m not at the office, Bill likes me to be at home.”
“Madeline,” I said, “what makes you think he’s having an affair now?”
She had waited a moment, looking down at her hands again. Then she lifted her head.
“He’s joined a gym,” she said flatly.
__________
I dial Madeline’s number at work.
“Dr. Gillian,” she says. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been to see you. Um, I’ve been so busy and I had to . . .”
“I’m concerned about you, Madeline.”
“I’m okay, I guess. But I’ve been thinking, you know, about what we’ve been doing in therapy, and I’m not sure it’s right for me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I thought you were starting to make progress.”
“A little bit, yes. But, okay, let me tell you the truth. You’re so nice, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I don’t want to sit in your office for years and years.”
“What makes you think it will take years and years?”
“It’s just that my sister, she lives in Florida, she’s been saying all along that I should just take some Prozac, and I know you don’t believe in medication . . .”
“I didn’t say that. Medication is fine, but you have some things going on in your life that I think you should work out by talking about them with a therapist. It doesn’t necessarily have to be me. The medication may make you feel better, but I don’t think you’ll actually get better without talking things through.”
“Maybe you’re right, but I went to my GP for a physical and he was willing to write me a prescription for Prozac, and I want to give it some time to work. If it does, that’s all I probably need.”
“If you ever change your mind, decide you want to talk with me again, just give my office a call,” I say. And then I ask, “How are things with Bill?”
Madeline’s voice rises, falsely bright. “Fine, just fine,” she chirps.
I say nothing, and after a few moments, she continues in a whisper, “He’s broken off with her. And he’s promised he won’t do it again. He says he’s looking forward to seeing me be more upbeat, you know, when the Prozac starts working. I guess I haven’t been much fun for him to be around.”
__________
Love, work, friendship. The nucleus on which therapists say human beings build healthy lives. I spend my days exploring other people’s triumphs and tragedies in all three spheres. Opening minds, closing wounds. Dispensing new perspectives, fifty minutes at a time.
In spite of what I told Madeline Foster, I don’t believe that psychoanalysis is the only way to resolve inner conflicts. If you do it right, just living your life will afford you all the therapy you need. My husband is proof of this. I guess I could make the case that a few visits with Dr. Moros set things in motion for Jim, but in the end, Jim’s magnificent success at love, work, and friendship is his own doing.
Jim wants us to plan a big trip to France in the fall. A whole month, he says. We’ll visit Nicole and Sarah and then rent a place in Provence for just the two of us. I’d love to show him Italy—we’ve never been there together. The Caravaggio exhibit will still be on, I tell him. “I’ll pass, for now,” he says. Jim is more or less at peace with what happened between Andrew and me, but for the moment he’s had all he can take of ghosts from my past.
Since that night we spent in the city, our marriage feels new to me. There’s a different, intimate quality in the way Jim relates to me, a kind of devotion that melts my heart. Jim has always been so strong and competent—of course, he still is—but now he has a vulnerability about him that makes me feel fundamental to his life. He calls more often, in the middle of our workdays, just to hear my voice. He wants to stay up late into the night, talking about everything and nothing. There’s a poetry to our everyday routines that makes me grateful for every minute we have together.
I remember a conversation I had with Sarah a few months after Jim and I got married. “Orientation period is over,” I told her. “Now we can start our marriage.” Thirty years later, I feel as excited about getting to know my husband as if we were still newlyweds.
Nothing in life really begins, or ends, when we think it does.
__________
“Take it from the top,” Miriam was saying, before I even sat down. “Don’t leave out a syllable.”
Miriam, Sarah, and I are at brunch for the first time in months. I picked a brasserie on the East Side where I knew we could sit for a long session. The three of us haven’t been together since the shiva for Celeste Kaplan, where we couldn’t really talk, and before that, at my fall party. So many startling changes in all of our lives during these months, changes that kept us from being able talk in person at a time when we most needed each other.
“Coffee, first,” I say, trying to get the waiter’s attention. “Jim and I were up very late. I’m not entirely awake yet.”
The waiter rushes to our table. I order an espresso.
“Bring her a whole pot,” Miriam tells him. “It’s crucial that we get this woman talking.” He nods and disappears.
Miriam turns to me. “I hope your fatigue is the result of a wild and passionate night,” she says. “I need proof that married people actually continue to have sex.”
“I hear it’s been known to happen,” Sarah says, “though I have no concrete evidence myself.”
“Don’t scare her,” I say to Sarah, “or she’ll never set a date.”
“We’re honing in,” Miriam says. “Early fall, I think. They’re closing the school for a week in October for some construction, so I’ll be able to take off for a honeymoon.”
“In Paris?” Sarah asks her. “Beth and Jim are planning their trip around the same time. We could all be there together. Just the five of us.”
“Who are you kidding?” Miriam says to her. “By October, you’ll have some French aristocrat crazy about you. A count, perhaps.”
“Remember what I told you,” Sarah says. “If you hea
r I’m foolish enough to fall for another man, regal title or not, you are to fly over and save me from myself. But please come for your honeymoon.”
“Gabe knows a film director there who is insisting we let him be our guide. We’re further along on honeymoon plans than we are on the actual wedding. Everywhere we’ve checked for the wedding is already booked. We call places and ask about available rooms, and they say, ‘You mean this October?’ It’s impossible. We’ve thought about Gabe’s brownstone, actually.”
“When will you start saying ‘our’ brownstone?” Sarah says.
“I know, I know,” Miriam says. “I’m still getting used to the concept.”
The waiter sets a small silver pot of coffee in front of me. I pour a cup for myself.
“Drink up,” Sarah says. “As my ex-boss, the eloquent Joey Selber would say, we’ve got some dialoguing to do.”
“I have an idea,” I say suddenly. “Why don’t you and Gabe get married at our house? Your wedding can be our fall party this year.”
Miriam shakes her head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. The fall party is yours, yours and Jim’s. All your neighbors and Jim’s associates . . . “
“We’ll modify the guest list for this year. You can invite anyone you want,” I say.
“It’s perfect,” says Sarah. “You two met at their house. A return to the scene of the crime.”
“Of several crimes,” Miriam says to her. “Fortunately, the statute of limitations has run out on a few of them.” She turns from Sarah to me. “This is the most generous gift anyone has ever offered me. Let me see what Gabe thinks,” she says.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.
“Are you coherent yet?” Sarah says to me, as I reach again for the coffee pot.
“Getting there. Your turn, Sarah. Tell us, are you getting used to being rich?”
“As one of the world’s great dames, Sophie Tucker, said, ‘I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor; rich is better,’” Sarah says. “That about sums it up. The accountant Jim recommended has set things up for me so that I can realize one of my fondest dreams. Her office now pays all my bills. Imagine, I may never have to write a check myself again.”