The Wednesday Group (20 page)

“You told him your husband was a sex addict,” Bridget says.

Kathryn adjusts herself in her chair so that she's facing the exact midpoint of the circle, favoring no one. “I think it's important to understand that everyone is going to share their stories in different ways to different people.”

“It's about trust.” Bridget picks up one of her flip-flops and bends it. “It's like she doesn't trust us.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way.” Hannah knows she sounds aloof, protective, but it's only because she feels as if she's going to burst into tears, and she doesn't want to do that.

“We understand how hard it is,” Gail says. “We all grapple with the shame and humiliation.”

“I get it.” Hannah holds up a hand. “I know you're all here to listen. I just don't have much to say right now.”

“I think it's important that you know we aren't going to judge you or your husband.” Gail speaks softly.

Hannah's skin blisters. “I get it. Can we move on? Please.”

“We know about Adam.” Gail extends her arm as if she's reaching out to Hannah. “It's okay,” she says.

Hannah feels ill. She glares at Bridget. “I understand that you might have overheard something you shouldn't have. But how dare you tell anyone.”

“I didn't know what to do with the information. I wasn't gossiping, if that's what you think. Plus, Gail can be trusted. She'll take our secrets to the fucking grave,” Bridget says.

Gail places a hand on her chest. “She's right. I wouldn't tell a soul.”

“That's not the point.” It feels as if hot lava is roiling under Hannah's skin.

“Can you talk about what you feel the point is?” Kathryn asks.

“My situation isn't up for public discussion.”

“Perhaps you can talk about why it's so hard for you to talk about your situation,” Kathryn suggests.

Hannah can feel all eyes on her. Kathryn is only being a good therapist, yet Hannah feels exposed and enraged.

“It just feels private.”

Bridget picks up her other flip-flop. “Then why come to this group in the first place? I mean, the point is that we're supposed to talk about our lives, not keep everything all bottled up. Maybe someone else would make use of your spot.”

“I've thought about that. And I agree. When I began this group, my intentions were to share. But in the past few weeks, I've learned that I'm not comfortable doing that. I'd gladly give my place to someone who might make better use of it.”

“I think it might be very helpful for you to work through this.” Kathryn's voice is gentle.

For Kathryn's sake, Hannah would like to oblige, but for her own sake, she can't. “I don't agree.”

“It's hard,” Kathryn says, “that people might know more than you wanted them to know. It can feel as if you have lost control.”

Hannah nods. “All I know right now is that I'm not ready to disclose everything. I'm sorry if I upset anyone. That was never my intention.”

“You push people away.” Bridget stretches out her arm and makes a halting gesture. “I know you can be warm and caring, but just so you know, you push people away.”

Hannah's eyes fill. Bridget is right. She is doing that, and she can't stop herself, and she doesn't know why. What she does know is that if they keep going, if they keep picking at her, she's either going to start screaming for them to shut up or she's going to throw up.

“Can someone else please talk?” Hannah asks. The words come out squeaky.

“I'll go,” Lizzy volunteers. “Last week, after group, Greg and I had a huge fight. I ended up kind of hitting him, and he shoved back. I banged my head and had to get a couple of stitches.”

“If he laid a hand on you, that's abuse,” Bridget says.

“I started it.”

“That doesn't matter,” Gail interjects.

“I know, but it ended up being sort of good. We actually held hands and laughed at the hospital.”

“It doesn't seem as if it's something to laugh about,” Kathryn says, alternating her gaze between Lizzy and Hannah.

“I know it doesn't sound that way. But you know the kind of laughing that you do to release tension? It was like that. We enjoyed each other's company. And it wasn't a bad cut.”

“You might be minimizing,” Gail says. “What was the fight about?”

Lizzy waves a hand. “It was stupid. About him not making me feel loved.”

“How is that stupid?” Bridget asks.

“It was late. I was haranguing him with questions.”

“And you don't feel like he abused you?” Kathryn asks.

“Definitely not. If anything, it was me. I was the one who wanted to get into it, physically. It was pent-up rage.”

“That's how I felt at the polygraph place. Michael didn't even pass the fucking pre-test. He admitted to more lies. More women. And I wanted to kick the shit out of him. I couldn't be with him. I went back to that hotel on Huntington. I stayed there for three days until I couldn't afford it anymore.”

“And now?” Gail asks.

“We're in the same house. Hardly together, though.”

Hannah squeezes her hands. She feels the rage too, only not at her husband. “I can't take this,” she says. “I can't sit here and listen to what they do to you.” She looks at Lizzy. “Maybe you had a happy moment with Greg, but he treats you like shit. Over and over, and you let him. He gives you nothing. You're a beautiful, talented woman. You deserve more.”

“Hold on,” Bridget says.

“No, you hold on. Michael is just going to keep lying. He'll find a way out of the next polygraph too, and even if he takes one and fails, he'll figure out how to make you stay with him.” She faces Gail. “I don't know about your husband. I hope to God it's what you think. But the fact that you just got another letter from his girlfriend doesn't exactly promote confidence.”

Gail points her chin forward. “She was never a girlfriend. I think you're projecting right now, and this isn't about us, but about you.”

“Here's what I do know. Five percent.” Hannah holds up her hand. “Five. That's it. Five percent actually get rehabilitated. That leaves ninety-five percent who don't. There are five of us in this group and if one of our husbands actually does get better, that's twenty percent. That's—”

“We're not imbeciles,” Bridget says. “We get the math.”

“It's just that we can't keep fooling ourselves. No offense to you, Kathryn, but it's not like this group is going to cure our husbands.”

“I don't think that's why we're here,” Lizzy says. “I think we know the statistics. But we still have hope.”

“Yeah, we have hope,” Bridget chimes in.

“Really, hope? You know who else had hope? Concentration camp victims. The Nazis used to drive them to mud fields. They'd dump them off and tell them whoever found a four-leaf clover would be saved. They dug until their fingers bled. That's where hope gets you.”

“Maybe we have reasons to believe there is something in the mud,” Bridget says. “Maybe you're the one fooling yourself. Maybe you don't talk about any of this shit because you don't want to face the fact that your husband is gay.”

The air withers. Everything stops. Time, movement, voices.

“I'm sorry,” Bridget mumbles. “I didn't mean for that to come out.”

Hannah stands and walks to the door. “I don't think my being here is helping anyone.” But just as she's about to leave, Flavia bursts in.

She holds the hand of a man with olive-colored skin, thick, wavy black hair, and a five-o'clock shadow. “I am so sorry to interrupt,” she says. “I knock, but no one seems to hear.”

Hannah takes a step back. Flavia is radiant in a white sundress with her hair French-braided so that it looks like a crown.

“Flavia.” Kathryn stands. “Perhaps your friend could just sit in the waiting area for a few minutes.”

“Of course. This is my husband, Dema.” Flavia kisses his cheek. He beams. She says something in Greek, then rubs the small of his back. It's clear he doesn't want to be separated from her, even for a minute, but he does what she asks of him and leaves the room.

The moment the door is closed, Hannah turns to Flavia. “You look amazing, and it's nice to see you, but I can't stay.”

“I would like it if you could bear with us for a few more minutes,” Kathryn tells Hannah.

“If Flavia wants to tell us something, I'll listen,” Hannah says.

“I have come to thank all of you. And to tell you that we have made a decision.” Flavia smiles. “Dema and I, we have talked for many hours and in conclusion have decided to move back to Greece.”

“Whoa.” Bridget is halfway out of her seat.

Flavia tugs at her gold chain. “His friend, he has a restaurant on a small island. It will not be much. The economy is terrible, but for us it is enough.”

“But what will you do?” Lizzy asks.

“I will find something. It is a small place. There are no subways, and for Dema it will be safer. We can be happy again. We leave in three days.”

“Three days,” Lizzy says. “You don't want to think about it more?”

“I did much thinking on my own, then with all of you, and finally I made up my mind. I know myself. It is a good decision.”

Hannah approaches and gives her a hug. “Good luck.”

“And the same to you. I have learned so much from your kindness and wisdom.”

“Thank you,” Hannah says, and slips out of the room.

She gets in her car, looks at the second-floor window of the Victorian house, and feels defeated. She didn't lose the battle exactly. She just can't keep up the fight. She needs a break from all of this—from the group, from couples' therapy, from all things sex addiction. Home might not always be comfortable, but it sure beats the hornet's nest she was just in.

 

Gail

It will be good to go out tonight, to sit with an intelligent group of people, to have substantive dialogues. Most of all, it will be wonderful to be with her husband, to be a team, an intellectual force.

The long table is beautifully dressed with white linen and sparkling crystal. Gail has on her teal suit, which Jonah had told her looked like a lovely summer breeze.

They are seated near the far end. She reaches for his hand under the table, and he gives her fingers a quick squeeze. As the guests arrive, many of whom are professors from Jonah's department, she feels his tension and again reaches for his hand. She would like to assure him that he does in fact belong here, that he should never underestimate himself. But he pulls his hand away this time, and she feels a moment of sadness at not being able to give him the comfort he deserves.

Gail chooses the rosemary-braised lamb shanks for her main course. The chatter is animated and vibrant. There is talk about the political climate, the economy, and gay marriage. This is the sort of environment she belongs in. She can't help but contrast it to last night's group.

For dessert they eat truffles, and Gail talks to the man seated across from her, Paul Bennett. He is a philosophy professor at Boston University and genuinely interested in the judicial system.

“The human element can never be discounted,” Gail tells him.

“Yes, it is fascinating how the course of a narrative can alter with only the slightest shift in emotion.”

“We try so hard to be objective, to separate facts from feelings. There are times we must try to do that.” She stirs the dainty spoon in her coffee. “But of course it is never truly possible.”

“May I be very bold and ask if I could sit one day in your courtroom and observe a trial?”

“It is always open to the public. And naturally I would be honored.” She feels proud.

“I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your last name earlier.”

“I'm Jonah's wife. Gail Larson.” She gazes directly, confidently into his light brown eyes.

He grins and tosses his napkin on his plate. “It is a small world. Just yesterday Dr. O'Reilly was speaking of you.”

For a moment, the clatter in the room feels strangely far away, as if some sort of bucket was thrown over her head. Then the noise returns—the tinkling of silverware, the refined laughter, fragments of sentences.

“Are you ill?” Paul asks.

“No.” Gail pushes back her chair. “I'm terribly sorry, but will you excuse me for a moment?” She leaves the table as quickly and unobtrusively as she can.

In the restroom, she walks into the last stall. Her heart thuds. She worries about her blood pressure. The only time she met Dr. O'Reilly was for her initial interview. How could a woman who wanted to be president of a university lack such basic judgment? What else did Dr. O'Reilly say? Not that Gail is about to ask Paul. A perfectly delightful evening is now ruined. Another woman, Gail thinks, might blame her husband; after all, it is because of him she went to see Dr. O'Reilly in the first place. But Gail doesn't feel angry at Jonah.

*   *   *

The following morning, Gail calls Dr. O'Reilly, who says she will “clear the decks” and be available immediately. Gail gets off the phone quickly, not wanting to divulge the reason for the meeting.

In Dr. O'Reilly's office, Gail chooses the chair closest to her adversary. Her years of experience in court will allow her to conduct this deftly.

Dr. O'Reilly wears a confident smile. “It sounded important,” she says. “I'm pleased you felt comfortable enough to call and reach out. How may I assist you?”

“I was at an event last night with some distinguished professors in the Boston community. I sat across from a man named Paul Bennett.” She pauses, watching Dr. O'Reilly's eyes lower.

“I know Paul,” Dr. O'Reilly says.

“I viewed us as having much in common. We are both women who have risen in our fields. We are expected to be trustworthy, to hold confidences.” Gail sits squarely in her chair as O'Reilly shrinks in hers.