The Affair (34 page)

Pauline is a mess. After we found the cassette case, she refused to go back to her apartment and has moved in with her sister.
I hooked her up with Marion Kleibaum, a rabid civil liberties attorney I met on a ski trip in Colorado three years ago. Marion
was still feeling victorious after a lawsuit she’d won against some big chain store that videotaped employees while they went
to pee. Pauline wanted to quit her job but Marion told her she should tough it out until they firmed up her case.

In the meantime, Pauline’s not eating or sleeping. She’s seeing one of the center’s psychiatrists, Jeff Goodman, a sweet guy
who put her on Zoloft and Xanax. If the drugs don’t kick in soon, she’ll be in the hospital before she ever makes it to court.

It doesn’t seem possible, but things have actually gotten worse with Roger. Earlier today I was unpacking the groceries when
he walked into the kitchen and pulled a box of chocolate Pop-Tarts out of a bag. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’re planning on
feeding this to our son?” He pushed his glasses up his long nose and began reading the ingredients in that smarmy, pseudo-English
accent of his. By the time he got to sodium acid pyrophosphate I was ready to throw the carton of eggs in his face.

But then he moved on to the Quaker oatmeal. “Don’t you realize we already have, like, three of these?” he asked icily. He
swung open the pantry and giddily called out, “Here’s one … and a second … and, by God, here’s the third.” He smiled triumphantly
and grabbed the new canister. “What, are you starting some kind of oatmeal collection?”

Why didn’t I walk away, or tell him to shut the hell up? Why did I stand there like a beaten dog, waiting for the rest? I
don’t know. I should know. I’m trained to know. But I might as well be figuring out hieroglyphics. I’m mystified. And I hate
myself for being so passive.

He ended his routine by pointing out that I should have used a coupon for the Tombstone pizza. “What coupon? I don’t have
a coupon,” I told him. He spun around and clawed at the refrigerator, sending the magnets flying to the floor.

“Oh no? What do you call this?!” He waved the coupon in front of my face.

“You’re right again, Roger. It must be such a burden to be the standard bearer of truth in this household. I pity you.”

He smiled derisively. “Know what? You’re a piece of work. A real piece of work.”

“And you, darling husband, are a piece of shit.”

“Spoken like a true lady.” Roger reached for the newspaper. “I’m going out.”

I put my hand on the paper. “Please. Don’t. Can’t we talk about this?”

He looked at me. “What is there to discuss? You just spent two hours and $84 on four bags of crap that we either don’t need
or shouldn’t eat. Any responsible husband would behave exactly as I did.”

“You’ve got to be kidding, Roger. This isn’t about Pop-Tarts or oatmeal or coupons for frozen pizza. Don’t you see that? Surely
a man of your intellectual depth understands that there’s something deeper going on.” I watched his face. It seemed to soften.
He was listening. “What is it, Roger? What are you so angry about? Why are you so contemptuous of me?”

He lowered himself to the stool and stared at the wall. Then: “I don’t know.” He looked up at me as if in pain. He shook his
head. “I just don’t know.”

I told him he’d better find out because I couldn’t live like this anymore. I hated him and I hated our marriage and would
rather be alone for the rest of my life than live out my years with a man who made me feel defensive, self-conscious, and
hyper-vigilant. I could deal with the affair. What I couldn’t handle were the snide comments and reproaches, the mood swings
and oppressive monitoring of my behavior, my choices, my mothering. I always said I’d never divorce, but suddenly I’m warming
to the prospect of living without that ever-present layer of static and anxiety this husband brings to my life and our household.
Then when I think about the details—just the prospect of going through our papers, sitting with lawyers, hammering out a custody
arrangement, dividing all our worldly belongings—it’s all so overwhelming!

Dale and I drove five hours down to Indiana to see the Dalai Lama speak, then five hours back home. It’s now 2
A.M.
I’m completely wiped out but glad we made the trip. I never imagined that His Holiness would be so funny and self deprecating
and, frankly, adorable. The topic was vague, ethics for a new millennium, I
think. He told the crowd that the new millennium would be pretty much like the old one. I’m not surprised, but I’m disappointed.
My marriage and job are so crappy, I was beginning to hope there might be something to this Armageddon business. Dale tells
me I should quit my job, go back to marital counseling with Roger, and stop whining already.

I’m not ready to quit my job, but I do believe I’m ready to try therapy one more time. If I’m going to file for divorce, I
need to feel as if I’ve exhausted all my options. Now I just need to find the right therapist.

I’m sitting here, listening to Al Green and torturing myself. In this particular masochistic mind game, I imagine what Roger’s
second wife will look like. She is in her late twenties and has a body like Nicole Kidman’s. She is highly fertile and can’t
wait to have many children. She keeps house like June Cleaver, cooks like Wolfgang Puck, and insists on stripping for him
(to music) every night, which leads to passionate and extended lovemaking. Her favorite position is on top (Roger’s fantasy
and my nightmare, given what my belly looks like from that angle). She massages his feet without being asked, has hot cocoa
waiting after he’s shoveled the driveway, and gets along swimmingly with his parents (who tolerate but hardly adore me). She
builds instant rapport with Pete, who insists on calling her Mommy and suddenly decides he likes her better because she’s
prettier and knows every single Pokémon character (I’m still not sure which one, if any, is Pokémon himself).

For this woman, Roger does all the things he wouldn’t do for me: learns to line dance, shaves his
goatee, takes a cooking class, wears silk boxers. I think I’m getting some kind of cardiac arrhythmia. Every time I think
about this I notice my heart’s not beating right.

I must stop.

Oh God. I think I just managed to get myself fired. I confronted Cadence. Actually, it wasn’t a confrontation. I cursed her
out. At a staff meeting. In front of everyone. I want to write more but I’ve got a client outside and I’ve got to pull myself
together. More later.

’Til next time,

I could tell I was headed for trouble today as soon as I woke up this morning. Everything felt wrong: Roger had left a wet
towel on my only clean bra (the damp cups against my skin made me want to scream); my hair looked like straw, and when I slicked
on too much mousse it looked like greasy straw; my face looked gray, no matter how much blush I smeared on my cheeks; I wore
that stupid coral-colored linen dress that makes me look like death; all my clothes felt constrictive (I’m up another two
pounds); my bra straps dug into my shoulder and back; and my pantyhose stopped three inches short of my crotch. I fantasized
about slicing off my thighs and belly with a carving knife. I clutched my blubber in both hands and stared hatefully
at my reflection. All I wanted to do was peel everything off and climb back under the covers, preferably with the leftover
cookie bars Pete and I made the night before. But I had to go to work. I doused myself with coffee, rammed a cereal bar down
my throat, dropped Pete off, and picked up another cup of coffee at Star-bucks.

I was consumed by road rage. A woman in a feeble Geo was puttering in front of me at a slug’s pace. As the light changed,
she miraculously found the gas pedal and scooted through, leaving me stuck at the red light! I swear, I was homicidal. I pulled
up alongside her and put down my window, motioning her to roll down hers.

She looked about ninety. “Time to surrender those car keys!” I screamed.

She smiled and cupped a gnarled hand to her ear. “Sorry?” She hadn’t heard me.

“Oh, forget it!” I tore ahead of her. Hello, I’m a therapist. I’m a healer. I know how to handle rage.

I switched on the radio and heard the radio shrink tell someone that doing well at work was the best revenge against crazy
bosses. Or something like that. That’s it, I decided. I’d transcend Cadence by focusing on my job. I’d get myself on a panel
at the next conference of the American Association of Marriage & Family Therapists. I’d publish an incredible journal article.
Maybe I’d start an obsessive-compulsive disorder group; I bet I could get Jeff Goodman to team with me.

As I arrived at the office—now ten minutes late for the staff meeting—I decided I had to be poised and commanding. I would
reverse whatever the Amazon had already set in motion against me. And one day I would root out some awful secret, some hideous
and
destructive flaw that would turn the staff and center’s administrators against her.

With this infantile monologue looping through my skull, I grabbed yet another cup of black coffee from the cart in the lobby
and jumped into the elevator. By the time I walked into the conference room the blood was pounding in my ears. I pulled up
a chair and thought I heard Cadence say something about canceling the Open Mind fair, a kind of public convention I’d started
five years ago as a way of demystifying mental illness.

“Excuse me, Cadence,” I started. “Did I hear you say you wanted to cancel Open Mind?”

“It’s canceled,” she said, never lifting her eyes from the paper in front of her. “And we’re moving on to the next item on
the agenda.” I could feel my throat tighten. I looked around the room for a sign of support. Dale rolled his eyes. No one
else would look at me. “With all due respect, Cadence, could we please discuss this first?”

“We just did. If you’d arrived on time, you could have participated in that discussion. Now, if you don’t mind?”

“Please. Cadence. I started that conference.”

“So?” Cadence flashed her hideously huge teeth. Today she looked more like Kissinger than Kissinger himself.

“So, I feel a responsibility to keep it going.”

“Responsibility. Now there’s a word.”

Jesus. What was she doing? What was going on? My skin prickled as if lightning were about to strike. I knew something awful
was coming. I just didn’t know how awful it would be. Poised and commanding? What a joke. I was a pathetic seventh-grade loser,
striking
back blindly at a snide bully. My ears rang with the white noise of animus and caffeine.

I opened my mouth and heard myself say: “Cadence, you are one butt-ugly woman.”

I wished I could reel the words back but they just hung there. The room was stone silent. Cadence actually smiled at me. I’d
just hammered the last nail into my own coffin and she didn’t have to do a thing. Bert Wiley, the center’s director and a
generally amiable guy, stood up. “Step outside, please,” he said to me. He wasn’t smiling. His face and neck were deep red.

“No. That’s okay. I’m okay. It’s over. Everything’s cool.”

“Step outside, Valerie.”

I was afraid to stand up, certain my legs would buckle beneath me. I grabbed my clipboard and walked out. My ears burned.

“What just happened in there?” Bert stared at me.

I felt like a child. “I don’t know, Bert. I guess I lost it. I’m … I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I think it best if you skip the rest of the meeting. You know. Take a breather.”

“Look. Bert. Things haven’t been great between Cadence and me. I don’t know what it is. Bad chemistry, I guess. I don’t know.”

Bert didn’t say anything. He turned and slipped back into the conference room. At the end of the day I got the message from
human resources. They wanted to talk to me first thing on Monday.

Dale stopped by to see if I was okay. Also to suggest I start packing my files. “You know,” he said. “Before they lock you
out.”

“They’re going to can me, aren’t they?”

“I guess you’ll find that out next week, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

Dale put a hand on my shoulder. “Just remember. One door closes, another door opens. Or something like that.”

Yeah. Something like that.

’Til next time,