Panic Attack

by Jason Starr

  However, as Adam well knew, it was much easier to solve a problem when it wasn’t his own. Now that he was experiencing all the emotions of a scorned lover himself, he was as clueless and helpless as any of his vengeance-seeking patients.

  “Dana!” he screamed. “Day-na!”

  He started up the stairs, then remembered that she was probably still at Costco.

  He looked at the note again, wondering if it could be some kind of prank; maybe the kids in the neighborhood playing another joke on him. It just didn’t make sense that Dana would actually be having an affair with that young bodybuilder. He wasn’t her type at all, and why would he be interested in her?

  But he didn’t see why a neighborhood kid would make up a story about Tony, and, come to think of it, Dana had been exhibiting the telltale signs of an adulterer. She’d been staying out late a lot with flimsy excuses, she’d been on that big fitness kick, losing about ten pounds over the past year, and she’d been taking better care of her appearance as well, going for those photo facials and laser hair removal treatments. Adam also knew that people often chose lovers who were the exact opposite of their spouses, and Tony was about as opposite from him as you could get.

  Now Adam’s rage was starting to hit hard, and he thought, That goddamn son of a bitch. Not only had that big goon been screwing his wife, he’d been screwing with his whole life, sending that threatening note, trying to scare him and his family. He was rubbing it in, not even trying to hide it.

  Adam was so upset, so out of control, that as he headed toward the New York Sports Club it didn’t even occur to him that going to confront a guy who was probably twice his size, with at least twice his muscle mass, probably wasn’t such a great idea. Like his scorned patients, he was so caught up in his rage, so hellbent on getting some kind of revenge, that all logic had been pushed aside.

  He arrived at the gym, looking hardly menacing, still wearing his off-white, Izod-style golf shirt, with his scorecard and pencil sticking out of the front breast pocket. He went right to the weight room, where he saw a couple of other trainers but no Tony. Where the hell was that stupid son of a bitch? And let’s face it, the guy was a moron. Was that Dana’s way of acting out, sleeping with a retard?

  “Where’s Tony?” Adam asked one of the trainers, a blond guy. “Dunno, check out the locker room,” the trainer said.

  Adam burst into the locker room, pushing the swinging door very hard into a kid, a teenager. As he went to the locker area, he heard from behind him, “What’s your problem, stupid ass?” Adam went past the rows of lockers, looking for Tony. He imagined himself forcing Tony back against a locker and bashing his face in, pummeling the moron. It didn’t even occur to Adam that he had zero chance of accomplishing any of this.

  Adam didn’t see Tony near the lockers, so he went into the bathroom. One of the stalls was occupied, and Adam banged on it and screamed something.

  “Hey!” whoever was in there shouted. It definitely wasn’t Tony.

  Adam checked the sauna and steam room but didn’t see Tony there either. He was on his way out of the locker room when he heard a guy singing off-key; it sounded like some corny pop song, something about how there was no air. It was coming from the showers, and Adam marched over there and saw Tony in the stall. First Adam looked right into Tony’s eyes, registering his shocked yet knowing expression, and then he looked lower, at his oversized arms and chest, and then at his penis. He did this purposely—to humiliate Tony, the way a rape victim craves humiliating his or her attacker. He thought that staring at the cock of the man who’d been sleeping with his wife would give him satisfaction, empower him. If Tony had had a small penis, a pencil dick, maybe it would have boosted Adam’s fragile ego, but unfortunately, even nonerect, Tony’s penis was much longer and much thicker than Adam’s, and looking at the cock only made Adam feel even more inadequate and intensified his feelings of self-loathing.

  “Hey,” Tony said as Adam went after him, trying to punch him in the face, but he stumbled, maybe on the ledge leading into the shower, and fell hard onto his knees. If someone had walked in at that moment it would have looked like Adam was performing oral sex on Tony.

  Adam was trying to get up as Tony said, “The fuck’re you doin’?”

  Holding on to the soap dispenser, Adam was able to lift himself partway up. He was very close to Tony, practically squished against his wet, soapy body. Using his free hand, Adam tried again to punch Tony in the face, the way he’d fantasized doing it, but he was barely able to get any force into the punch, and he hit Tony weakly on the chin.

  Tony pushed Adam back hard against the wall and said, “Hey, take it easy, bro, okay, just take it easy.”

  Then Adam spat at Tony’s forehead. Tony shoved Adam and said, “Hey, you fuckin’ crazy?” and Adam spit again, hitting him in the left eye. This time Tony lost it completely and grabbed Adam and practically flung him out of the shower stall and Adam fell onto his side. Adam got up and went after Tony again, but Tony, outside the stall now, simply grabbed him and unloaded with a solid right to the face. Adam heard the loud crunch in his left cheek, and then the excruciating pain hit. But Adam was undeterred, and later he’d wonder if on some level he actually wanted to get hurt, if the desire to feel pain, to be punished, was his true motivation. Nevertheless, caught up in the moment, Adam was helpless, and he continued coming after Tony, who kept pushing him away and knocking him down onto the wet floor, like he was some minor annoyance.

  When Adam returned from the gym, beaten up and bloodied, he confronted Dana in the kitchen, trying to get her to admit what she’d done, and when she wouldn’t, he revealed his affair with Sharon. At that moment, he enjoyed seeing Dana’s shock set in, watching her whole world fall apart. He felt like the playing field had been leveled—they were both in pain now, both suffering— and it was also a great relief to suddenly be unburdened of the secret he’d been keeping. Finally it was all out in the open; there was nothing left to hide.

  Only after Dana ran out of the house—probably heading for Sharon’s—did he realize the incredibly stupid, thoughtless, and hurtful thing he’d done.

  He’d counseled many patients about the dangers of revealing a revenge affair to a spouse. He’d told them it might make them feel good initially, but in the end it would only compile the hurt for everyone involved. He’d even suggested that if his patients had the desire to get even they should leave, go away for a few hours to settle down, not act impulsively. But now, like before, he’d done everything he always told his patients not to do. He’d made a bad situation worse, not only further damaging his own marriage but potentially ruining Sharon’s as well.

  Marissa, who was still in the kitchen with Adam, said, “Is it really true about you and Sharon? Were you really having an affair with her?”

  It was time to finally start acting like a rational adult again, to get in control of this situation. Enough with the acting out and the childish, inappropriate rage. He had to own his feelings, take responsibility for his actions.

  “It wasn’t an actual affair,” he said. “It was just a one-night stand . . . a one-

  day stand.”

  Marissa looked at him in disbelief, and Adam realized how badly he’d hurt her, too. It would’ve been hard enough for her to reconcile her mother’s cheating, but now she’d found out that both her parents were adulterers. What kind of examples had they set for her?

  “You are such a fucking hypocrite,” she said. “Telling me how to live my life, giving me all these rules, when your own life is so messed up. And how could you do that to Mom? With Sharon, of all people? My best friend’s mother? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Adam knew she was right, about everything. She had every right to be angry at him, to hate him. After taking a few moments to absorb what she’d said, all he could say was, “I’m sorry.”

  “Un-fucking-believable,” she said and left the kitchen. He heard her heading up the stairs, then the door to her room slammed.

>   After all the yelling and drama, the sudden silence in the kitchen was glaring, but it also seemed foreboding. The way things were headed, the quiet seemed like a glimpse into the future, when he was going to be divorced, living alone in an empty house.

  During the whole scene with Dana, his face hadn’t been hurting him as much as it should’ve been, but now the agony was returning. He washed up in the kitchen, watching the pink water swirl down the drain, wincing when his hands touched the cuts and bruises. His face felt very swollen, and it was hard to see out of his left eye. It was probably too late to do anything for it, but he took a few Advils anyway and wrapped some ice cubes in a dish towel and held it against the most swollen areas with as much force as he could stand. He was afraid to look at himself in a mirror because he had a feeling it was even worse than he thought.

  When his face started feeling numb and most of the ice cubes had melted, he left the dish towel in the sink and went upstairs. He couldn’t believe what he’d done during the past half hour, how he’d made one awful decision after another. The feelings of self-hatred and self-blaming were so familiar. He was aware that the way he felt right now was the way he’d felt as a child but also how he’d felt after the shooting. He didn’t know why he behaved the way he did, why he almost willfully seemed to make the same mistakes over and over again. Why did his knowledge and training desert him at the worst times?

  He realized that he should probably warn Sharon that Dana had found out that they’d had sex. He called Sharon’s cell, but she wasn’t picking up. It was probably too late anyway. Dana had probably gone over there to confront her and cause more drama; Adam didn’t even want to imagine that scene. He knew Sharon would never speak to him again. He’d once told her that, no matter what, he’d never tell anyone about their affair. He’d done such a great job of keeping that secret.

  As Adam was putting down the phone, he noticed he had a voice mail. He checked his incoming call log and saw it had only been Stu, calling back, wanting to hear the rest of the golf story. Adam remembered how happy he’d been after he made that last putt on eighteen. It felt like that had happened years ago.

  The Advils and ice hadn’t done anything, and his face was throbbing. He accidentally glanced in a mirror and was horrified by how awful he looked. The whole left side of his face was bruised and swollen, and his upper lip was badly swollen and looked purplish blue.

  He was on his way down for more ice when the front doorbell rang, five or six times in rapid succession. It was probably Dana, who’d rushed out of the house without her keys. He hoped she hadn’t actually gone to Sharon’s house, that she’d done what he should’ve done earlier—taken a walk around the neighborhood to calm down and get hold of herself. He had no idea what he’d say to her, if there was anything left to say.

  Without looking through the peephole, he opened the door and saw Sharon’s husband, Mike.

  Mike looked enraged—eyes widened, jaw clenched—and there was no mystery why. He was a big, stocky guy—he’d been on the wrestling team in college at Stony Brook—and Adam feared he was in for another beating.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” he said, resorting immediately to begging. “I’m so, so sorry. Please, please don’t hurt me.”

  Mike looked slightly horrified now, as if he’d noticed what Adam’s face looked like, and he said, “How’d your face get like that? Your psycho wife do that to you?”

  Adam didn’t know why Mike thought Dana had beaten him up, but he didn’t feel like getting into the actual explanation. “No, it wasn’t Dana,” he said. “It was. . . . I’m just so sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

  Mike glared at Adam hard and then said, “You’re both pathetic. And you better tell your psycho wife to stay away from my wife, because next time she shows up at my house, next time she even rings the bell, I’m calling the fuckin’ cops.”

  “Oh, no, what did she do?”

  “She tried to strangle my wife, that’s what she did.” “Oh my God,” Adam said. “Is she okay?”

  “Sharon’s fine, but your wife should be locked up at fuckin’ Bellevue.” Mike poked his index finger hard against Adam’s chest. “And you better stay the hell away from my wife, you son of a bitch, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  He let that not exactly veiled threat linger for several seconds, keeping his index finger right where it was, jamming it in with more force for emphasis, and then he stormed away without looking back.

  Adam remained there with the door open for a long time—he wasn’t sure how long—and then he shut the door, feeling thoroughly distraught.

  Marissa was still up in her room, blasting music now. Adam had no idea how he was going to rebuild his relationship with his daughter, how he’d ever regain her respect and trust. His relationship with Dana seemed even more hopeless. When she came home, if she came home, what could they say to each other? He felt like his marriage was almost certainly over. He knew from experience that when two people behave so hurtfully toward one another, they reach a point where reconciliation is impossible, and he and Dana had gone way, way beyond that point.

  In the kitchen, Adam saw the note from Tony on the counter. He read it again, in a calmer, less emotional mood than he’d been in before. While the note still angered him and made him feel extremely manipulated and victimized, he was able to read it more objectively. Earlier he’d realized that the note looked almost exactly like the threatening note that had been left at the house— it was on the same plain white paper, was written in the same way—and he’d thought that Tony had only left the earlier note to scare him. But what if there was more to it than that? What if Tony really had been the second intruder in the house that night? Maybe there was some connection between Tony and Carlos Sanchez. Or maybe Tony had been over to the house sometime and met Gabriela and conspired to rob the house with Carlos.

  The idea that Tony knew Gabriela and Carlos seemed far-fetched, but the facts were that a note had been left at his house, possibly by the person who’d participated in the robbery, and now an identical-looking note had been left by Tony.

  Adam did what he should’ve done right away, before he’d confronted Tony and before he’d acted out so selfishly and thoughtlessly with Dana. He called Detective Clements to let him know about the possible lead.

  Her dad and Sharon Wasserman having sex?

  Marissa was at her desk in her room, staring blankly at her PC monitor, mindlessly scrolling through her iTunes playlist, trying to picture her dad and Sharon doing it. The idea of her dad having sex with anyone was hard to believe, and not just in the way all kids get disgusted by the idea of their parents having sex. With her dad it was actually hard to believe. He was such a serious, analytical person; Marissa just couldn’t imagine him letting loose, having that kind of passion. Especially recently, the last several years, he’d seemed totally asexual. It was particularly hard to imagine him having an affair—a one-day

  stand—with Sharon Wasserman, of all people. Sharon was so laid-back, so outgoing, so cool, so totally unlike Marissa’s father. And Sharon and Mike had always seemed like the perfect happy couple. Why would Sharon throw all of that away?

  Marissa’s cell rang. It was Hillary saying, “Did you just call?”

  “Yeah, I got your voice mail, but I didn’t leave a message,” Marissa said. “Where are you?”

  “The city,” Hillary said, “having drinks at Wetbar with Brendon. What’s up?”

  Brendon was some supposedly very cute guy Hillary had met one night in the city whom Marissa hadn’t met yet.

  “Did you hear what’s going on?” Marissa asked. “What’s going on with what?”

  “I guess not then.” “What is it?”

  “I have some bad news for you,” Marissa said. “Well, not bad news . . . weird news. Fucked-up news. Very fucked-up news.”

  “Can you tell me already?” Hillary sounded very concerned.

  Figuring she might as well just come out with it, Marissa said, “My
dad and your mom had sex.”

  Saying it out loud, it seemed even more absurd, almost laughable. There was a long silence, then Hillary said, “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “Swear to God, I just found out. It’s so fucked up. My dad found out about my mom and Tony, too. My parents looked like they wanted to kill each other.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Hillary said, sounding a little edgy. “Why would I call you up to lie about—”

  “I don’t know, but it’s not funny.”

  Marissa tried to sound ultraserious. “I am not lying.” “I have to go,” Hillary said coldly.

  “Hill, come on, don’t—”

  “Bye,” Hillary said and ended the call.

  Marissa was pissed off that Hillary had hung up on her like that—talk about shooting the messenger—but she could understand her reaction. The affair was hard to believe, and it had to be even harder for Hillary to accept because her life had always been so perfect. Her parents had always gotten along so well, and her family had always been one of the least dysfunctional families in the whole neighborhood.

  “Welcome to the club,” Marissa said, and then the doorbell rang.

  She went to the edge of the landing and kneeled down to get an unobstructed view of the front door, where her father was talking to—holy shit—Mike Wasserman, Hillary’s dad. He sounded like he was threatening her father—oh no, this day was going from bad to worse. Marissa hoped her dad wasn’t going to get even more beaten up; who’d beaten him up the first time, anyway? Did her mom do that to him? She’d seemed angry enough to beat him up, that was for sure.