The Wednesday Group (18 page)

“I think that's a wise idea,” Gail adds.

Hannah stands. She likes how she feels, as if she's walking across one of those fake rickety bridges. When she gets to the door, she turns to catch a glimpse of Jake. He doesn't see her. Lizzy keeps hold of Hannah's arm. She doesn't need the support, but she doesn't mind it either.

In Lizzy's car, Hannah reclines the seat but immediately gets the spins.

“Shit.” She sits up. “I think it was that fourth one.” Hannah covers her mouth as she hiccups.

“I couldn't handle four.”

“I used to be able to. But it's been a while. I've been so busy playing the good fucking mommy and wife that I forgot what fun it was to go out and get smashed.”

“What's your address?” Lizzy asks, holding a GPS.

“Twenty-four Garden Gate Road, Wayland, Mass. 01778.”

“You need a bottle of water or anything?”

“You know what?” Hannah begins. “You're too good for what's-his-face.”

Lizzy smiles. “Greg.”

“I bet Jake would be thrilled to have sex with you.”

The GPS gives directions to get onto the highway. “I'm not really interested. But thanks, I guess.”

Hannah's stomach feels like it's tumbling in a dryer. She takes a few deep breaths and tries to focus on the moon, which is a sliver short of full. “I don't feel too great,” she finally says. “Think you could stop?”

“Do you want to wait for a McDonald's or something?”

Hannah covers her mouth and shakes her head. Lizzy pulls over. Hannah opens the door and dives out. At least she manages to vomit in the grass and not on the pavement.

Lizzy rubs Hannah's back. “You going to be all right?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She stands straight, hating the aftertaste of alcohol, throw-up, and apple. “I can't believe I … fuck…”

“It's okay.”

“God, I'm an ass.” She looks up at the slate gray sky.

“Don't say that.” Lizzy holds open the car door.

Hannah gets in and leans her head on the window. They drive for a while. Her throat doesn't burn as much, and she starts to feel much more sober than she ever intended.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I thought a few drinks could give me a reprieve.”

“Please, it's fine. We all understand.”

“Think they love us?” Hannah asks.

“Bridget and Gail?”

“No.” She chuckles. “Our husbands.”

“Someone once told me that love is an action verb.” Lizzy takes the exit.

“What kind of action is Greg taking?” Hannah asks.

“Um…” Lizzy turns onto Hannah's street. “I guess he's been going to the twelve-step groups and therapy.”

“Right. But has he done anything for you?”

“I suppose. He's trying to get better.”

“That's for him.”

“And for us.” Lizzy slows the car to a stop in front of Hannah's house. The front porch light is on. “What about you?” she asks.

“Adam tries, but I won't let him do much. If he brought home flowers, I'd throw them away, and I'm not ready to actually do anything fun with him. It wouldn't be fun. I'm still too angry.” Hannah opens the door and puts one foot on the street, then turns back to Lizzy. “Don't settle,” she says.

The house is quiet. Hannah grabs two water bottles from the fridge and goes to her room. She sits on the edge of the bed and feels as if someone is pounding a hammer on her temples. Her eyes are dry, her throat is still sore, her stomach acidic. What an idiot, to go out drinking like she's seventeen, as if that would ever help her or her family. One addict is enough. It occurs to her that if she had to come up with a word that was the antonym of
love,
it would be
addiction.

 

Lizzy

Lizzy gets back on the highway. She's not settling. She doesn't have to stay with Greg. She makes enough money—just—to live on her own. Her life would be full without him. It's not as if she needs a man. She happens to like Greg. Love him, actually. Really, she does. She wouldn't stay if she didn't. Right? Of course not. The question is, does he love her?

By the time she pulls into her driveway and gets out of the car, she fully intends to wake Greg and get an answer.

In the bedroom, she switches on the overhead light. Greg groans, pulls the comforter over his head, and turns toward the wall.

Lizzy sits on her side of the bed. “Can we talk?” she asks.

He rolls on his back and covers his eyes with his forearm. “What's up?” He sounds resigned, as if he's doing her some huge favor.

“Why do you stay with me?”

“Aw, Liz. Not now.”

“It's important to me,” she says.

He exhales. “You always come back from your group like this. Get some sleep; we can talk tomorrow.”

Blue veins streak the underside of his arm. “I always come back like what?”

“Like … wound sort of tight.”

“You're right, I do. Isn't that the point of the groups? To listen to others? To learn? Isn't that why you go to yours?”

He yawns. “Yeah. I learn. I like to listen. But I don't leave with questions.”

“Why not? I mean, I would think when you listen to other people and what's going on in their relationships, it would bring up questions about ours.”

“Well, it doesn't,” he tells her, irritated.

“I don't get that.”

“Look, Liz, we're different. That's all. I get different things from my groups.” He rubs his eyes. “Can we talk about this some other time?”

“I just have one question,” she says.

“Fine. One.”

“Why do you stay with me?” She tosses her earrings from one hand to the other. He's right, she's tense, very tense, and he could make it better. All he'd have to do is reach over, touch her, tell her he stays because he loves her.

“We work well together.” His voice is weary.

“What does that mean exactly?” she asks.

He moves his arm away from his face and slaps the mattress. “Liz, come on. It's past midnight. I answered your one question.”

“Just tell me what it means. That we work well together.”

“We enjoy each other's company.”

“Like you're enjoying mine now?”

He sighs. “Look, we go out to dinner and have fun sometimes. That's all I'm saying. Now can I please go to sleep?”

The hook snaps off her earring and little black beads race along the floor. It's a cheap piece of jewelry, easily replaceable, yet she begins to cry. Greg doesn't seem to notice that she's broken her earring, that she's in tears, that his answer was woefully inadequate. She can't have lived eighteen years with this man and settled for a few fun dinners.

“Are the women you watch prettier than me?” It's a childish question, but she doesn't retract it. Instead she bends down, grinding a bead with her thumb into the floor.

“Not all,” he mumbles.

“Not all?” she asks.

“What do you want me to say? Just tell me, because whatever I answer isn't going to be right for you.”

It's true, it seems as if his answers are never what she wants to hear. She leaves the broken earring and curls on top of the comforter. “You know how when you love someone, you think they're beautiful because you love them?”

“Jesus, Lizzy, please, can we go to sleep?”

“Do you think I'm beautiful?”

He slaps the mattress again. “Yes, I've felt that.”

“But you've never told me.”

“Correct,” he states.

“And you can't tell me now?”

“Correct.”

“But you have felt it?” she asks.

“Yes.” Another exasperated sigh.

“And you say that you're becoming more open and honest from your groups?”

He shoves down the covers and swings his legs out of bed. His feet smack the floor.

“So you're just going to leave?” she asks.

“I need to use the bathroom. Is that all right with you?” He sounds nasal and defensive.

As she watches him stomp away, she looks at his slender hips and imagines him jerking off. She shudders, then stands to unwrap her scarf and is hanging it on her closet door when he comes back in.

“So why aren't you interested in me?” she asks.

“It's not about you,” he yells.

“Of course not. It's about you, and you…” She pokes a finger at his chest. “You, you, you.”

He slaps her hand away.

She swats at him.

He grabs her wrist. “Stop it,” he tells her.

She shoves him with her free hand. He shoves back. She stumbles, almost falls, but regains her footing. She pushes him again. He thrusts the heel of his hand into her chest. Her head jerks back and hits the framed painting on the wall. She hears a crack.

The picture tumbles, and the glass shatters. Her hands flap idiotically, frantically. There's a pinch at the back of her head. She reaches to massage it and feels something sharp. She tugs it out, then stares at the red stains, the color of strawberries.

“Lizzy, are you all right?” He glances at her hand, at the piece of glass.

She doesn't know. She feels okay, just a little off-center. Her hand grazes the back of her head. It's wet and sticky.

“Let me see,” Greg says. But he doesn't look because the sight of blood makes him nauseated. She wonders if she's going to have to watch another person vomit tonight.

“I'll just get a washcloth,” she tells him. But when she takes a step she gets dizzy, and the door looks as if it's turning. She steadies herself by putting a hand on the dresser; then she sits, slowly. Between a few pieces of glass are two black beads from her earrings. She thinks of collages and ice chips, of how her floor looks like a piece of art, and how in her pocket are the numbers of the women in her group. Is this the kind of situation in which she should call two other people?

Lizzy squints, narrowing her vision, focusing only on the glass and beads.

“I'm taking you to the hospital,” Greg says.

She puts her head between her knees and breathes. He sits next to her and caresses her back. She closes her eyes, comforted by his touch, happy he is taking action.

 

Bridget

She's read that pregnancy can increase body temperature. Hers feels like it's gone up ten degrees. Bridget fans herself with one hand as she scans her closet and decides on a pink summer dress, something innocent and light.

She checks her profile and rubs her stretching belly. She used to think that pregnant women who caressed their stomachs were just seeking attention, but now she believes it's one of those instinctual things, sort of like monogamy, that's good for the baby and the family. Although Michael sure as hell didn't get the fidelity gene.

Most of the red dye in her hair has washed out. She's back to black. Her combat boots clash with the pink dress, but she likes the look.

Today is their second meeting with Joe Ramirez, the man who will be conducting the polygraph, an ex–FBI agent. He looks like he's around her father's age, and the first time she met him, she had a fantasy about him beating the shit out of Michael. Lately, she finds herself constantly daydreaming. Sometimes it's about the baby, about how the three of them will be a happy family. Sometimes it's about her kicking Michael out, and him begging her to let him stay. She imagines moving to New Hampshire, buying a small piece of land where she'll keep goats and chickens. Five minutes later, she's picturing herself in Hawaii, living on a beach. One second she sees herself engulfed in Michael's arms, the next second she's dumping his stuff on the street.

“You ready?” Michael calls from downstairs.

She glances at herself again, crunches her wavy hair, and thinks she'll never be ready. Not for this. But she's not about to back out either.

They take his truck, which has been baking in the sun. As she puts her feet on the dashboard, her dress slips down so that her legs are almost entirely exposed. He tries not to stare, but he can't help it. Although she'd never admit it to him, she'd wouldn't mind if he found some deserted street where they could have sex.

She takes a few papers out of her purse, leans her head back in a provocative pose, and fans herself. He takes the bait and slips a hand down the front of her dress.

She closes her eyes and moans softly.

“You are one sweet thing,” he says, keeping one hand on the wheel, and one on her.

Her feet, still resting on the dashboard, move apart slightly, just enough to show him what she wants.

“I know someplace we can stop,” he says.

“On the way home,” she replies. It will be a reward for getting through their appointment. Yes, she said she would never have sex with him again, but what the hell? He's willing to take a lie detector test. That should say something good about their marriage.

She opens her eyes, unfolds the paper in her hands, and tries to act like he's not making her hot. Then she reads the questions that she's written for their session today. She's no longer in the mood. She pushes his hand away and drops her legs.

Before the actual polygraph, they have to meet with Mr. Ramirez three times to talk about the procedure. It's nothing like what they show on TV. There isn't a list of fifty questions. No surprise attacks. You get one topic to focus on, and the questions need to be worded in a way that the answers all converge and address the major issue. At first Bridget thought it was crap that Michael got to review the questions. That way he could prepare—practice keeping his heart rate down and his breathing calm—but Mr. Ramirez assured her that's not the way it worked.

“So, want to know what my first question is?” she asks.

“Joe said we're supposed to wait until we're with him.” Now he has both hands on the steering wheel and is watching the road, as if he can't be distracted when he's driving, which is such bullshit. He's just avoiding the subject.