The Wednesday Group (15 page)

“Most addictions affect the whole family,” Kathryn adds.

Hannah grips the wooden chair seat. Her neck feels hot. She's dizzy. The thought of Alicia urinating on the floor keeps intruding. Her beautiful little girl, doing something like that.

“May I ask what happened in school?” Gail asks.

Heat rises from Hannah's neck to her cheeks. “She's been calling other kids names.”

“Misplaced anger,” Gail suggests.

“Probably.” Hannah fiddles with her pearls. She's said more than enough.

“It could be worse,” Bridget comforts.

Hannah looks at her red shoes and regrets that she told everyone to dress up. She should have kept her distance last week. Now here they are being so nice, and all she wants is to be left alone.

“I guess it could be,” Hannah says, although she's not sure how.

“Can I ask,” Flavia says softly, “what did your husband do?”

Hannah feels a hitch in her throat. She circles her hand in the air. “The usual sex addict stuff, you know, secrets and lies.”

“Oh,” Flavia says, as if that explains everything. “I am so sorry.”

“It's all right. I mean, I'm all right. Someone else should go.” The clock ticks. Kathryn would be wise to invest in one that isn't so grating.

“We're here for you too,” Lizzy says.

“Thanks,” Hannah replies. She is surprised to feel a tear on her cheek. Flavia hands her a tissue.

“These things can be difficult to talk about,” Kathryn says.

Hannah nods amenably. If she were Bridget, she might say,
No shit.

“Perhaps if you could talk about why it's so difficult to talk,” Kathryn suggests.

“Yes,” Hannah agrees, with no intention of doing such a thing. Kathryn is being pushy. Her youth is showing.

Bridget scuffs a foot on the carpet.

Lizzy tugs at a thread on the couch.

Flavia twists her hair.

The seconds tick loudly, endlessly, annoyingly.

“So,” Bridget begins, “I told Michael I was pregnant.”

Kathryn glances at Hannah, who looks at Bridget, making it clear that it's okay to move on. In fact, better that way.

Kathryn hesitates, then turns to Bridget. “And how did he take it?” she asks.

Hannah can breathe again. As Bridget describes her outing to the movies, Hannah hears fragments.
Popcorn. Asshole.
She thinks that marriage is a tangled, complicated mess of a thing. And if you get too entwined and enmeshed, how can you just detach?

“I sort of did something bad,” Bridget says.

Hannah nods as if she's been paying attention all along.

Bridget continues, “I told him I was getting an abortion. I did it to hurt him and I regret it, but I haven't been able to tell him the truth yet.”

“Why do you think you can't tell him?” Kathryn asks.

She exhales dramatically. “Because he'll make me feel like a five-year-old for lying.”

“But he's lied to you,” Lizzy says.

“Two wrongs don't make a right,” Bridget tells her.

“True,” Gail says. “But with this disease, you slowly learn that you both need to be vigorously honest. Tell him why you lied. Explain that you wanted to hurt him because of how hurt you've been. You knew it was wrong, but it's human.”

Somewhere beneath all the noise in Hannah's head, she is grateful and surprised Gail has such compassion.

“He's still gonna be pissed.”

“Feelings aren't always nice, pretty things,” Gail tells her.

Hannah tries to focus on Bridget, but she's dizzy. She pictures Adam going into that Dunkin Donuts a year ago. She repressed her suspicions, told herself when he came out with an extra bounce in his step he was just glad to be with his family. He'd kissed her and told her she was beautiful, made her feel warm and full, and now she would bet he went in to copy phone numbers off a bathroom wall. He was giddy, high with the anticipation of his next encounter. Hardly the kind husband or good father he shows to the world.

“I'm sorry,” Hannah says, and stands. “I'm not feeling so well.” She grabs her purse and hurries to the bathroom. The floor tiles are old and cracked. She kneels and vomits in the toilet. When she's finished, she sits with her back against the wall and cries.

Not even a minute later, there's a knock.

“Hannah,” Lizzy calls.

“I'm okay,” she replies.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. I'll just be a minute.”

“Okay. But come get one of us if you need to.”

When it's quiet again, Hannah closes her eyes. Her stomach feels raw. Her head aches. She sees bright spots. Slowly her heart begins to beat regularly and she feels as if she can stand. From the old porcelain sink, she splashes cold water on her face, then glances at her heavily made-up eyes. Alicia was right, she looks silly, like she's dressed up for Halloween. As much as she'd just like to walk out to her car, she can't. Bridget and Lizzy, the others too, might worry, and they certainly don't need any added anxiety in their lives.

She walks back in as Flavia is telling the group about the court date.

“Please, keep going,” Hannah tells her as she takes her seat.

“We were concerned,” Flavia says.

“I feel better. Really. Don't stop.”

“We did what you told us to do,” Flavia tells Gail. “He got probation. If they catch him again, he will be in bad trouble. But for now, I feel relief.”

Hannah looks at the clock. Five more minutes. She can make it. But then she has to go home and face her life, and the thought of that makes her nauseated again.

“I want to close today by telling you all how impressed I am with your courage,” Kathryn says.

Hannah certainly doesn't feel courageous.

“So, drinks at the bar around the corner?” Bridget asks.

Flavia nods.

“I'm afraid I have to work in the morning,” Gail says.

“You didn't get that spicy new hairdo and wear that suit to sit in here. Come on. We're all going. Right?” Bridget asks.

“I think I need to go home,” Hannah says.

Bridget pouts. “You have to come. You were the one who told us to dress up.”

Maybe it will help. At the very least it will ensure that her family will be in bed by the time she gets home.

“You are our glue.” Flavia's eyes plead.

“One,” Hannah agrees.

“I suppose one wouldn't hurt,” Gail adds.

As they say good night to Kathryn, Hannah thinks about glue, how she's always been that for her family. But lately she's curling at the edges, like cheap linoleum.

*   *   *

Hannah plans to have one drink before driving home, washing off her makeup, and getting into bed. With luck she'll find some TV show that will distract her for an hour or so.

At the small bar around the corner from the Victorian house, they sit at a veneered table next to a large window framed with fairy lights. The room glows dim amber. Gail orders a glass of merlot. Lizzy, Hannah, and Flavia decide on appletinis. Bridget has water.

When their drinks arrive, Lizzy raises her glass. “To us,” she says.

Their glasses clink.

“To saner lives,” Bridget toasts.

The alcohol goes straight to Hannah's head. The fairy lights blur, and she feels content for a moment. It's a relief to be here, with women who know the truth about her life, or at least a piece of the truth.

“Think Kathryn has a boyfriend?” Bridget asks.

“I don't think it's really any of our business,” Gail answers.

Bridget laughs. “It's a free country. I can ask.”

“And I can answer.” For once Gail's smile is unguarded.

It's funny how they thrive on disagreeing. Hannah was sure they'd be enemies—at best tolerate each other. But in an odd way, they make a happy pair.

“I am sure she has a nice man.” Flavia wipes a lipstick smudge from her glass. “She wouldn't make the mistakes that we do.”

“Just because someone is a good therapist doesn't necessarily mean they know how to run their own lives,” Gail says.

With half a drink in her, Hannah feels bold. “What kind of work do you do?” she asks Gail.

“I can't really say.”

“Why?” Bridget asks.

“It's just one of those things I'd rather keep private. When people find out, they tend to treat me differently.” She finishes her wine.

“Oh, you're afraid I might be nice,” Bridget says.

Gail chuckles. “No, not really.” The waitress comes to check on their drinks. “Another round for the table,” Gail says.

Hannah is ready to protest, but she decides one more will be better than some stupid TV show.

“Does anyone think of divorce?” Flavia asks.

“How can we not think about it?” Hannah replies.

“I don't,” Gail says.

“For real?” Bridget asks.

“You see, I was married before. To a nice man, but we didn't love each other. There was no joy between us. So what I meant to say is that I know what it feels like to want to get divorced, and that's not how I feel now. I love Jonah, and I'm willing to take this journey with him.”

“I say we talk about anything except our husbands,” Hannah suggests.

“I have something,” Lizzy says, her words a touch slurry. “After the second group, I was going to quit. I didn't think I needed you guys. Not that I thought I was better than all of you, just that my problems weren't as bad. But I don't know what I would have done without you last week.” Her deep brown eyes shine.

“It's no secret I didn't want to come back,” Bridget says. “If it weren't for Hannah, I wouldn't have.”

Hannah feels embarrassed but smiles anyway. “I didn't really do anything.”

“Give yourself more credit. You're like the real therapist of our group,” Bridget says.

Hannah rubs at a spot on the table. Not only is she not a therapist, she's a hypocrite. She tells these women to talk, to share, to be open, and there is no way she could really tell them the truth about herself.

“Change of topic,” Bridget announces. “How many men, not including our present nitwits—and yes, Gail, I know Jonah isn't a nitwit—but really, how many men have you slept with?”

“Are we just counting having intercourse?” Flavia asks.

“Yeah.”

“And why are we talking about this?” Gail sips her wine.

“'Cause we're out having drinks, and it's fun.”

“I'm not sure I'd term it fun.”

“Can you just answer without any judgmental commentary?” Bridget replies, a playful grin spreading.

“Seven,” Gail says.

“You didn't even have to think about that.”

“Why would I?”

“I dunno. I guess if I really sat down and counted, guys in college and before Michael, it would take a few minutes.”

“Then why ask?”

“Like I said. For fun. Anyway, my guess is that I'd be around fifteen.” Bridget looks around expectantly.

“I'm afraid mine is much higher,” Flavia admits.

“Four,” Lizzy announces. “Boring.”

“Well, you beat me,” Hannah says. “Three. Adam and I met in college, the summer of our junior year. We just hit it off.”

“I met Dema at the restaurant his brother used to own. But that went kaput.”

“What are you doing for work now?” Hannah asks.

“I am a hostess.” She traces her finger along the edge of her glass. “I even try to do the phone sex. I think it was easy money, but I only last two calls. The second man, he was telling me something so…” She shudders. “It was disgusting. He say he imagine me sitting in a bathtub, and him peeing on me.”

Hannah thinks of Alicia and her mood plummets. She'd like one hour, just one, in which she doesn't think of Adam, or the effects of addiction, or bathroom stalls.

“You know what I think,” Flavia says. “Those men by the bar are looking at us.”

“At you, maybe,” Hannah tells her.

“No. The tall, dark one, he has his eye on you.”

Hannah looks up. The man smiles. She glances away.

“I'm just happy to be away from Greg,” Lizzy says. “I know I shouldn't want to punish him, but I hope he's worried I'm out meeting someone else. I hope that makes him jealous.”

“He should be jealous,” Hannah says.

“Totally,” Bridget seconds.

Hannah slips out to go to the ladies' room. She keeps her gaze lowered.

“Hey,” the dark-haired man says as she passes.

On her way back, she looks at him. Once again he smiles. He has dimples and kind eyes.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

She stops. “I'm already over my limit.”

“And what's that?”

“I've had two.” She feels herself flirting, tilting her head, swishing back her hair.

“Three will do you good.” He touches her shoulder. She doesn't back away.

“I'm with my friends.”

“How do you know each other?” he asks.

She chuckles. “Can't really say.” She likes his baggy jeans and work boots. Mostly, she likes how easily he smiles.

“One of them just gave me a thumbs-up,” he says.

“Is she wearing a peach-colored dress?”

“Yep.”

“I should get back.”

“I think they want you here.”

“And why would you think that?” she asks, moving a little closer.

“Male intuition.” He places a hand on the bar and slides it, almost imperceptibly, toward her. She thinks of pawns inching their way forward on a chessboard.

“Like that exists,” she says.

“A man-hater, are you?” There's no meanness in his question. His blue-green eyes watch her.

“A
some
men–hater,” she replies.

“Trouble?” he asks.

“I think I will have that third drink.” Hannah sits on a barstool.