The Wednesday Group (16 page)

“Jake,” he says, and shakes her hand, holding it for a few extra seconds.

Drink number three arrives. “Hannah,” she tells him.

She sips her drink and glances at the front table. The lights are dancing, her friends are laughing, and she feels better than she's felt in ages.

“You from around here?” he asks.

“Sort of.”

“Woman of mystery?”

“Naturally.”

Jake tells her that he makes cabinets, he has two yellow Labs, and he saves up his money so he can travel to historic battlefields. He's a closet history addict. She flinches at the word
addict,
but lets it go as he keeps talking. She isn't sure who looked at the back door first, him or her.

“If we smoked, I'd say let's go out for a cigarette,” he tells her, brushing his hand along her forearm.

“Shame we're so healthy these days,” she replies.

“We could pretend.” He touches her hair and nods toward the door.

She finishes her drink. They stand at the same time. He takes her hand, and they walk to the back of the bar. She wonders if Adam meets men this way.

Outside, they find a little alcove behind the building. His kisses taste like the ocean. Somewhere at the edges of her consciousness, under the alcohol, she knows she should stop.

He holds her face and looks at her. “You really are beautiful.”

She believes that he thinks that. She's known him for less than half an hour, and she trusts him more than her own husband. He kisses her again. A breeze tickles her neck. She doesn't want this to end.

A car door slams, and the noise jolts her out of the moment.

“What is it?” Jake asks, cupping her chin.

She rests her head on his chest, which smells faintly of sawdust. If she could just do this, feel another body next to hers, that would be enough.

“What?” he asks again, gathering her hair.

“I'm sorry. I can't.”

“It's okay. I don't want you to think I'm trying to take advantage because I pumped that third drink into you.”

“It's not the drink. Although that helped.”

“What, then?”

“I'm married.”

He kisses the top of her head. “I sort of guessed that from the wedding ring.”

“You didn't ask,” she says.

“I figured you have your reasons.”

She nods, keeping her head on his chest, wanting to be held for a few more seconds. There's a faint smell of spring in the air. Everything feels oddly familiar and comforting.

“And you love him?” he asks.

“I do,” she says.

“Lucky guy.”

“He's a sex addict,” she blurts.

“Oh.” He strokes her hair.

“Sorry, I shouldn't have dumped that on you. I don't know why I did. The drinks, I guess.”

“So he cheated on you?”

“Yes. But it's not just that. He's an addict.” She pauses. “And his drug of choice is other men.” The words seem to echo against the night sky.

He holds her tighter. She feels like crying, letting it all out, the way she should in group.

“We could have fun together,” he tells her. “It might be good for you.”

“I can't.” She puts her hands on his chest and gently pushes herself away. It's just not in her to cheat.

She turns to go back inside and sees Bridget waiting at the door.

“I was just coming to check on you,” Bridget says. “We were getting worried.”

Jake's hand touches the small of Hannah's back. His way of saying it's okay.

“Just getting some fresh air,” Hannah says.

“You picked a good night.” Bridget gives a tight smile and leads the way in. They follow. Jake whispers, “Take care,” as he stops at the bar.

Hannah continues to the table. Lizzy's cheeks are rosy; her eyes twinkle as she giggles. Gail has gone home.

“We're talking about the first time we learned what sex was,” Lizzy says.

Flavia grins and pats the chair for Hannah to sit. Guilt bleeds from her chest outward as she thinks of Alicia propped on a stool, glaring at her, accusing her of dressing up to look for a boyfriend. An hour ago, going home to a sleeping family seemed tolerable. Not anymore. Now she feels as if she's just a false reflection of all she pretends to be.

 

Gail

Gail adjusts the wire in the skin-toned bra that she's wearing underneath her flowing ivory negligee. There had been a time she'd considered getting a breast reduction, but she didn't want to take the chance of losing sensation in her nipples. She stares at her open book,
The Four Loves
, a gift from Jonah. But the words are just black scrawls clustered in random formations. All she can think about is the letter and how she's going to tell Jonah.

He was supposed to be home by ten, before her, but he works late sometimes, much more infrequently than in the past. He's likely grading papers or getting lost in the latest research. At one time she would have worried; now she's just anxious to get this letter ordeal behind them.

The front door opens. She smooths out the cover and props herself up a little more. Looking down at her chest, she makes sure her nightgown hides any signs that she's wearing a bra. She would hardly consider herself vain, but she also doesn't want him to see the extent of gravity's influence. Modesty and decorum are very different from dishonesty, she tells herself.

“I'm awake,” she calls.

He doesn't reply. Probably didn't hear her, although she can hear him. He's puttering around, opening the fridge, turning on the tap, running the garbage disposal. She's never understood his need to switch on the disposal. It's something to do with cleansing, similar to his habit of clipping his nails every morning.

The door is ajar. He pushes it open and stands at the foot of the bed. “Didn't think you'd be up,” he says. It's ten past eleven. She normally reads until eleven-thirty.

She holds her book for him to see. “I'm really enjoying this.” It's a white lie, not the kind that counts. She wants to show him she appreciates his thoughtful gestures.

“It's been a long day.” He sits on the edge of the bed, bends to untie his shoes, and sighs slowly.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

“Yes, just long,” he replies.

“Are you coming to bed?”

He stands and unbuttons his light green shirt. “In a while.” He glances into his closet. “I still have some reading to do.” His hands knot behind his back as if he's silently debating some philosophical dilemma. Maybe one of Kierkegaard's.

She'd like him to lie next to her so she can hold his hand, inhale his scent. He always laughs when she says that there is something chocolaty about the way he smells. He's told her that's not exactly manly. She wouldn't have it any other way.

“I meant to tell you the other day,” she says in the most cavalier tone she can muster. Her voice falters slightly, betraying her, although he doesn't seem to notice. He hangs up his shirt, then unbuckles his belt. “I got another letter from April,” she says quietly.

He pulls the belt through the belt loops and puts it on a hook on the closet door. If there was anything to be worried about, he would never be acting so serene.

“What did it say?” He drops his pants and steps out of them.

“The same—how you are in love with her, but you are afraid to tell me.” She has full control of her voice now.

“What did you do with it?” he asks.

“I was going to shred it, but I think at this point, I might need to take some action. A harassment order.”

He gives his pants a good shake, then slides them on a hanger. She looks at his slender white legs and feels self-conscious about her thighs.

“You think that's necessary?” he asks coolly. Although her back is sweating, she likes that he's unfazed by this.

“I'm not sure. But I do think that she should be sent a message to stop.” She pauses. “As usual, there was no address or last name.”

“Hmmm.” He takes off his underwear, tosses it in the laundry basket, and puts on his pajamas. He has no problem undressing in front of her. Something she still can't do.

“Do you know where she's living now?” she asks. The wire in her bra digs into her chest.

“Actually, I believe she's back at Harvard.”

The muscles around her heart clench. “Really?”

“Yes. I believe Lilly said something.”

She imagines Lilly, the department secretary, gossiping, trying to get a rise out of Jonah.

“How would Lilly know?” she asks as if the subject is mundane.

“She just seems to hear about those sorts of things.” He buttons his pajama shirt all the way up.

She remains expressionless. “Were you surprised when you learned of it?”

His eyes are direct, honest. “I didn't feel much. Just hoped that she was doing well.”

“And is she?”

He puts on his slippers. “I really have no idea. I didn't ask.”

His responses settle her. “So you haven't seen her?”

“No.” He shakes his head and shrugs as if he didn't have to think twice about it.

“Perhaps if you tell me her last name, I can find her address and have a letter sent. Something to let her know she should stop.”

“You think that's really necessary?” He just asked that question. She knows he's hoping for a different response.

Her nightgown, which has slipped between her legs, clings to her thighs. “I think it would be wise.”

“It's been a long time since she sent that last letter, hasn't it?”

Is he defending April's behavior? “A few months.”

“Maybe we should just let it be. No response sometimes sends a more powerful message.” He stands in the open doorway. Not as if he's trying to flee, but rather get back to his studies.

She nods. “Yes, sometimes. But in this case I think a letter, something that looks official, might be best.”

“If that's what you want,” he says.

“If you just tell me her last name, I'll have Barbara find her address. She's a wonder at things like that. You don't have to get that for me.”

He nods. “That would be better.”

More proof that he's sober. He knows to stay away. “Thank you for being so understanding,” she tells him. She wishes the group could have witnessed this interchange and seen that there isn't always a need to respond with anger and fear. Bridget especially might be able to learn something, and although they have their moments of discord, Gail envisions herself as a sort of mentor for the younger woman.

Jonah gives a diminutive, appreciative smile and rotates his shoulder, ready to head out. He's been so agreeable, so easy to talk to about this.

“Are you going to read?” she asks.

“I was. Just for a bit, if you don't mind.”

She does mind. She minds that he's not coming to bed, that he didn't kiss her good night, that he hasn't provided a name.

“So what is her last name?” she asks.

“It's Russian. Difficult to spell. I'll write it for you and leave it on the kitchen counter.”

“Thank you.”

He's about to leave.

“Why didn't you tell me she was back?” She should have just let him go, but she couldn't.

“I simply forgot,” he tells her.

“Oh,” she replies, trying to mirror his ease. It's the first time tonight she's felt as if he wasn't being genuine.

He walks toward her, his head bent, his eyes shy, young almost. For a moment she reads his demeanor as guilty, but when he looks into her eyes, she tells herself she's overanalyzing. He leans to kiss her on the lips, and she is soothed.

 

Hannah

Monday morning, Hannah gets Sam off to school, then wakes Alicia. At nine-thirty, they take Adam's car to the family therapist that Hannah found.

Beth Healy's office is in a small brick building next to Newton-Wellesley Hospital. The three of them sit in the waiting room. Hannah keeps smiling at Alicia, who keeps looking away.

Then she takes count. There's her therapist, Adam's therapist, their couples' therapist, his sponsor, her group therapist, and now a family therapist, a school counselor, and she's pretty sure Alicia will have her own therapist soon. That's eight. A family of four with eight therapists. Hannah picks up a
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine. Adam and Alicia are playing some game on his phone, and she wants to whip the magazine across the room. The eight therapists are because of him—the wonderful, thoughtful father who's taken time to download games on his phone that his daughter finds amusing.

Beth Healy comes out at exactly ten and invites them in. She's wearing a well-fitted red suit with black pumps.

Adam and Alicia sit on the couch. Hannah chooses one of two armchairs. Tall windows make the room light, and a dollhouse in the corner catches Alicia's eye.

After the introductions, Beth explains that she will split the sessions up. First she wants to talk to Alicia alone, then to Hannah and Adam, and at the end they'll all meet together.

Hannah and Adam return to the waiting area.

Fifteen minutes later, Alicia emerges smiling.

“There are some books over there you might like.” Beth points to a table in the corner. “Will you be all right?”

Alicia stands very straight. “Yes, thank you.”

Hannah feels proud of her daughter as she walks into the office.

“There isn't a lot I can tell you from our first meeting,” Beth says. “But I do think it's wise that you've chosen to seek help.”

“And why is that?” Hannah asks.

“Alicia is a very bright child, which I'm sure you're both aware of.” She looks at them and smiles. “No particular disorder jumps out at me, but I do think she's very angry, and she could use some coping skills to learn how to deal with the turmoil of emotions she's feeling.”