by Autumn Piper
We’re both smiling entirely too much when Baldwin faces us on the loveseat, sitting in an armchair across from us. He’s in his late twenties, with long straw-like hair, and bangs in dire need of trimming–bangs! Although he’s dressed in a suit, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he wore Birkenstocks with it.
Our hippie therapist proceeds to take a rough history of our marriage, ages and frequency of lovemaking. The last seems odd to me, especially when he dwells on how much enjoyment we each derive from our love life, on a scale of one to ten.
Mike tackles the task at hand. “It’s always been a nine or ten for me, up until this last week when she started holding out on me.” Bastard. Does he want me to tell this guy what he did?
“Probably from a six or seven to a ten sometimes,” I admit. “Until I saw Mike boning our friend’s girlfriend the night before Thanksgiving.”
Mike’s selectively honest mouth drops wide open. Apparently, he didn’t expect his sin to be disclosed in the therapeutic process.
Baldwin carefully and non-judgmentally notes the facts in his tiny spiral pad, which bears our last name, LAWSON, across the back. Is this guy for real? Is that our case file? Again, I fight back laughter.
He wants to see us separately next. My appointment is Thursday, an hour after Mike’s. I have little doubt we are all Baldwin has on the books for the week, which explains how he got us in so quickly.
On the way home, Mike and I both crack up over the spiral notebook and the decor. We’re still laughing about Baldwin when Mike follows me in the house. He pins me against the wall in the foyer and starts kissing my neck. Clearly, therapy works for him.
“Mike!” I screech. “Get off me!”
He’s murmuring, nuzzling around my hairline, which he knows drives me crazy. “Baby, let’s go build a fire. I’ll stay home from work and spend the whole day making it up to you. I’ll make you want me so much. Mandy.” My name comes out a cross between a moan and a sigh.
His hands are everywhere good, rubbing seductively, and my traitor of a body likes it, wanting more. Wants me to relax into him and let him take me where only he can. “I love you,” he murmurs on the other side of my neck. His thumbs rub my nipples, while he presses against me, making me want him so. He moans, a sound which makes me think of a garage. Oh yeah, that garage!
“You asshole, you weren’t even going to admit to the counselor that you screwed around on me! Get off me!” I shove him hard, knee wedged pointedly in his groin, and he lurches back.
His eyes are glossy with that look I used to love. The look that meant he was going to do anything it took to get me there with him, writhing in ecstasy. “I’m sorry, baby. Let’s make it go away. Please, let’s forget this.”
“Easy for you to say ‘Let’s forget’! You weren’t the one who was wronged. What if you’d walked in and found me bending over for Brad?”
Mike’s eyes instantly narrow with the wrath we both know would rain down if the tables were turned.
“Don’t you need to go to work?” I storm off.
“I won’t give up on you, Mandy! You’ll see. I’ll fix this,” he calls after me as I rush downstairs.
I hear him humming Mandy again on his way out.
* * * *
It’s Thursday morning and I’m waiting for my appointment with Baldwin. Mike is still in there, I know, since his truck is out front. I can’t imagine what he’s been talking about for an hour with Baldwin, but I bet it’s not the truth. Since I’ve been carefully cool with him since Tuesday, he hasn’t tried to kiss me again in front of the kids.
I’ve made it a point to not be alone with him, ever. Two more bouquets of flowers have been delivered, one each day. He’s pulling out all the stops. My girlfriend even called the other day and told me he had the radio station play that song for me again. I wasn’t listening, on purpose.
Via email, I’ve learned Adam doesn’t care what kind of cat he gets. I’m considering getting him a kitten from a litter my friend has. Adam was catching a cold when I saw him yesterday, definitely under the weather and not in good spirits. For myself, I’m amazed I’m this chipper with the sands in the hourglass of my marriage sliding so quickly away.
* * * *
Mike finishes his appointment, blowing me a kiss I scowl at, and I enter Baldwin’s little Nook o’Nirvana. No incense today. Instead, he has at least a hundred candles burning. I think I can feel wax in my lungs.
Baldwin’s hair is in a ponytail and his bangs keep flopping in his face, but he incessantly tucks them behind his ears. Am I on Candid Camera? Nobody real can be this funny. My brother would love this shit. Maybe I’ll confide in him, just to share this.
Laughter is every bit as hard to keep down today as it was when I smoked weed in college, guffawing uproariously at anything and everything. My sides used to hurt the next day from laughing so hard. I feel the same unbridled hilarity jetting out of me now in near-snorts. It sounds like the way Grandpa used to breathe when he slept in his recliner during televised boxing matches. Little puffs of mirth.
Baldwin opens the dialogue. “How do you feel about the state of your marriage?”
Uh, let’s see, Banged-one. You recall Hiroshima? It was in better shape after the bombs than my marriage is now. It’s silly for me to pretend I want this to work out. I’m wasting everybody’s time here. Might as well put all my cards on the table. “It’s over.”
Showing absolutely no reaction, he scribbles my reply on that itty-bitty pad of his. Rachel has a similar pad with Hello Kitty on the front. She keeps her friends’ phone numbers in it, not in alphabetical order, but in order of importance to her.
I doubt Baldwin understands my resolve, so I explain. “I’m only here because I’m stalling Mike until after the holidays to separate.” Or was Mike stalling me? I’m not sure anymore. “I have no intention of ever sleeping with him again, and I want a divorce.” That should be clear enough.
His bushy brows shoot up. I’ve piqued the wannabe therapist’s interest. “Why do you feel that way?”
God, could it be more simple? “He had sex with a woman we know, while I was in the same house! Anybody, even one of the kids, could have walked in on it! It makes me sick to think of him touching me.”
“Do you still love him?”
Jesus, did Mike put him up to asking that?
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t forgive him for what he did. I’ll never forget what I saw, it comes to me at all hours of the day and night.”
“So you do still love him, but you’re angry, possibly jealous of his having another partner without your consent.”
Without my consent. This guy probably advocates swapping and threesomes, all the fun and games, as long as both spouses consent. I snap my gawping mouth shut.
Good ole Baldwin looks me straight in the eye. “What if you were to have an encounter with an outside partner, to even the score?”
Is it the smoke from the candles or his suggestion making me choke?
“You mean like a revenge affair?” Stampeding thoughts of Adam shred my calm like buffalo through prairie turf. I feel flushed.
Baldwin answers, “I was thinking of something more controlled, clinical. I’m betting you’d feel a lot better afterward.” His tone has changed, thickened, and he leers at me from under the bangs. Baldwin must imagine I’d bring a partner in here and let him watch us. He sounded kinda excited about it, though. And now he’s edging closer, perched on the loveseat near me. “You’d be amazed what a difference a change of pace can make.” He’s very close, and… Oh God. He wants to do this thing now. With him as the outside partner.
I laugh, pretending I’m not sure what he means. “Are you suggesting that my husband pay you to have sex with me?”
“I’d do it for free, but if it’s a bigger turn-on for you to pay me, I’m good with that, too.” As his hand reaches my shoulder, I start laughing wildly, hysterically.
“Oh, God. Stop.” I slap his hand away, as belly-laugh-induced tears run
down my face. Fleeing to the door while still howling, I turn with my hand on the knob. “Couldn’t you…lose your…license for that?”
“Karma wouldn’t let that happen,” he assures me, as if it will bring me back. His arms are extended in a come to me posture.
This cracks me up all the way to the street. Whatever Mike paid him, it was worth that laugh.
* * * *
Adam is more ill today. He looks like he may have a fever, but doesn’t know if he does, because he has no thermometer. He only walks to his back gate, and I can tell he’s feeling lousy. I run down to Wal-mart and buy him a care package of thermometer, Thera-flu, Nyquil and Vaporub. I could be overdoing it, but I’m not sure what he’ll use.
As an extra precaution, I throw in some ibuprofen and a six-pack of Gatorade. I have just enough time to drop the stuff off before I have to be home. He comes to the door, and I make him promise me he’ll email me updates. I give him my cell number, “in case.” In case what? Who knows? It’s the nurturer coming out, worrying about him all alone like he is.
At home, I’m steadfast about checking my email every two hours. Adam seems in good enough spirits, teasing me about buying him so much medicine. He writes to tell me when he has his next garage sale, he’ll have to get DEA and FDA approval first. In another message, he asks if I can run downtown to pick him up a ledger to keep track of all the drugs, and requests a Vaporub massage. I’m now Florence Nightingale, instead of Axl.
* * * *
Mike quizzes me about my therapy session after the kids go to bed. I start giggling, and tell him in detail what happened. He looks serious when I’ve finished, but not like he wants to run downtown and kick Baldwin’s ass. “Why would you make up a story like that?” he asks.
“Yeah, why would I, Michael?” I’m not a liar.
He knows this. He’s still looking at me blankly, waiting for an explanation.
“I’m not lying!”
“First that wild tale the other night about being at some guy’s house, then you tell Lana you’re gonna sleep with Brad. Now this. Are you fantasizing about getting even with me?” If you only knew, Mikey. Back to the Undesirable Mandy Theory. Back to me being livid. Hey, wait a minute. He’s been talking to Lana. Ooh, I will so make him pay.
“How can you run around here acting like it’s your life mission to get me back in your bed, and then not believe that any other guy could want me? Do you know how that makes me feel? Go to hell, Michael. Oh, and either find another counselor, or don’t expect me to go there alone again. We have three weeks left, by the way.”
Time for my self-righteously steamed self to the shower. I never bathed after my run today, because I spent all that time buying Adam’s medicine. I know Mike has gone in the bedroom and can hear me in the shower. The massaging head comes down, and I use it for just the reason it was invented, making sure he can hear me moaning in more ecstasy than I feel, especially as I finish.
When I come out in my robe to fetch a nightgown, Mike is leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door, looking mighty pathetic. I turn up my nose at him and flutter past, sighing as if self-gratification is still pleasuring me.
Before going to sleep, I check on Adam, electronically. He let me know he’s going to sleep for the night, and he’s staying home from work tomorrow, but under no circumstances am I to come there, because he doesn’t want me sick. How noble. Now I won’t even get to see him.
Chapter 6
It’s Monday and I haven’t seen Adam in four days. He has a whopping case of the flu.
We had another appointment with Dr. Bangs this morning. Mike actually asked the guy if he suggested I have sex with him. Yeah, Mikey, the guy’s just going to flush his career by admitting he came on to a patient who rejected him. When Baldwin denied it, Mike looked at me like, “I told you so.”
My eyes rolled back so far, they almost got stuck like Grandma always warned they would if I crossed them. Can’t Mike see how stupid this is? I have got to call my brother and meet him for lunch.
I’m on my way to Adam’s because I haven’t gotten a single email from him since yesterday morning. It’s only eleven when I park beside his work truck. It feels like something is wrong. He doesn’t answer his door, so I scoop up the big stack of mail the mailman stuck on the doorstep and head around to the back door. With a sigh of relief, I find it unlocked. I would have found another way in if I had to, but this is less likely to cause the old guy next door to call the cops.
“Adam? Hey, Ferris!” I call when I step in. I can smell the Vaporub, and the rest of my drug arsenal is strewn across the counter, along with a few water glasses that have been used for Gatorade. Lack of an answer leads me to his room. He’s there, and I can hear him breathing, kind of raspy. His face is red. He’s burning up, wrapped like a mummy in several blankets. He doesn’t wake, which worries me.
“Hey sleepyhead, it’s me,” I say softly, ruffling his hair.
His lips are cracked and dry. Dehydrated. How long has he been this sick? I slip the digital thermometer in his mouth, and find he’s at a hundred and six degrees–scary. Panic voice tells me to call an ambulance, but being a level-headed mom, I set about trying to get the fever down.
There’s one bottle of Gatorade left, and I pour some in a glass, but can’t get it down him without spilling, unless he sits up. I fetch crushed ice and slide some between his lips. This seems to work, so I continue for awhile, still trying to rouse him.
To lower his fever, I get a wet washcloth and start wiping him down, push away the blankets. They must be contributing to his high temp. Good thing I’m a level-headed mom, because I’m mopping a washcloth across an incredible set of shoulders, here. The reproductive-aged female part of me is nearly panting over an amazing chest, and oh, yes, abs to die for. Geez Louise, this guy is built!
My amorous sponge bath helps wake him, and he’s cooled down some. “Welcome back,” I coo in true Nightingale bedside manner.
One of his eyes opens. “Laura?”
Um, no. Who the heck is Laura?
“You’re here,” he sighs, relieved. “Thought you died. You’re here!” He seems overjoyed about it.
Whoever Laura is, she sure matters a lot.
“It’s okay. Can you take some medicine?”
He nods, still smiling maniacally, and I get the glass of Gatorade and the ibuprofen. He swallows the pills, then leans back.
“You should have called me,” I chide.
He ignores my reprimand. He has questions to ask. “Is Stevie okay too? Where’s Stevie?”
“Shh, you want something to eat?”
He shakes his head, and he’s wild-eyed, delirious.
“I think you should take a shower, not too hot. It’ll help get your fever down.”
“Dammit, Laura, where’s the baby? Where is he? Tell me he’s okay too, please!” Those glazed blue eyes are getting wetter. He’s very distraught. This won’t do.
I give in and play along. “He’s fine, just napping. Please take a shower, you’re burning up.”
“I love you, you know that? I’ve been wanting to tell you ever since…” He’s choked up, so I nod and allow him to hug me against his blazing, bare chest.
Who is Laura? And I can’t say I’m happy to hear of her. When Adam is well, he’s got some explaining to do. But for now, I usher him into the shower. Typical man, he’s wearing nothing at all under those blankets, giving me a real eyeful. Now I know what I’m missing while I put up with Mike.
Adam’s laptop is on the table next to his bed, and he has my goofy picture set as his wallpaper. I can’t decide whether to be flattered he has me on his computer, or chagrined he didn’t use the other picture.
He goes back to sleep shortly after returning to bed. I managed to rustle up some clean sheets and got them on the bed while it was empty, and now I’m starting the others in his washer. Again, typical guy, has no fabric softener. Good grief, how can guys stand it? Yucky rough polyester sheets, and no fabric softe
ner. I’ll bring some Bounce when I come back, and stick it in with them in the dryer. I check his temp; it’s down to a hundred and one now, which is uncomfortable but not dangerous, at least. I slip a couple more ice chips in, then leave quietly by the back door.
It’s only noon, so I head to Wal-mart again. This time I get him Bounce, two more packs of Gatorade, Carmex, and some of those little bowls of Mandarin oranges. And a DVD of–what else?–Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I’m not sure if he already has it, but I bet he’ll get a kick out of me buying it for him.
As an afterthought, I pick up some TwinPops, knowing my kids like them when they have a fever. Even with stomach flu, they taste good. Florence Nightingale, at your service.
Adam’s sleeping again when I come in, and the fever’s still down. I set about putting stuff together to take in his room so he won’t have to run to the kitchen for everything. For the first time, I notice his last name on a piece of mail.
Kraft. Adam Kraft. Has a nice ring to it. So who the heck is Laura? I’m not sure I want to know, but I’m certain I need to, sooner or later. He’s managed to down the Gatorade I left him, so I get him more, then wake him.
“Hey,” he croaks.
“Hey. I brought you Popsicles, and these little oranges if you want them.” Why am I whispering? “There’s more Gatorade, and I bought you a movie.” I hold up the DVD.
He smiles. “Thanks, that’s my favorite!” Yeah, so you told me.
“I need to go now, but call or email if you need anything, okay?” I head out of the room.
“You taking the baby, or do I need to watch him?”
I stop in my tracks, turn to look at him, and he’s dead serious.
“Yeah, he’ll be with me. Get some rest.” I start the sheets in the dryer and leave, more confused than ever.
* * * *
Later that evening Adam emails me. He’s feeling better. He can tell I’ve been there by the movie, and he notices I changed the sheets. He’s forgotten everything else.
* * * *
I don’t have much time on my hands this week. Aunt Clara is coming over every day to make as much Christmas candy with me as she deems necessary. This candy-making is a good partnership. Her kitchen is way too small for it, and my one attempt at toffee resulted in a forever-gooey mess that ultimately stuck so badly, I had to throw away the pan it was in.