The Wednesday Group (23 page)

The front door opens. Greg whistles as he looks through the mail. How can he be so laid-back? Doesn't he remember how distressed she was on the phone? After a couple of minutes, he strolls into the kitchen. She thinks he looks thinner and wonders why this is the first time she has noticed.

“What's up?” he asks.

“Something terrible happened.” She's about to cry. “I was asked to leave school.”

“What?” He pulls out a chair and sits. He looks shocked, and although she feels herself shaking, his surprise just confirms that this was all some huge cosmic mistake.

“I … Joe called me into his office. It was so humiliating.” She covers her face for a second. “He told me he's been getting e-mails from parents saying they don't want me to teach their children because you got fired from work for some sort of sexual misconduct.” Tears flow. “They don't want me to teach there anymore. At least for the rest of the year.”

Greg pounds his fist on the table. “What the hell. You haven't done anything wrong.”

“I guess I'm like that wife of Sandusky. Somehow I'll allow you to molest their children.”

“How dare they?” His mouth twitches. His eyes remind her of small glass beads.

She puts her head on the table and weeps. “I don't know what to do.”

“Tell them to take a flying fuck.”

She lifts her head. “Will you call Joe? Tell him you didn't get fired. Tell him…” She stops to catch her breath. “Just tell him how ridiculous this all is.”

He pushes himself away from the table. She watches him open a cabinet and stare at a box of ziti.

“Will you?” she asks.

He takes out the box, studies the side of it. “If you want me to.”

“I do. You have to. I can't live like this.” She pulls up a file from her computer, ready to give him Joe's number.

Greg sits at the table again, now looking at the front of the box. “The thing is…”

She stares at him. His shoulders hunch. His slight underbite seems more pronounced. He should be taking out his phone to make the call.

“What?” she asks.

He flips the box over. “I was let go from work.”

She feels the way she did in Joe's office. As if the words are thick molasses, and they don't make sense. “When?” she asks.

“At the beginning of last week.”

“But you've been getting up every day and…” In fact he's dressed in work clothes now.

He opens the box of ziti, then closes it. “I haven't actually been going in.”

“Where do you go, then?” She stares at him. Who is this man?

“I drive around. Go to the library. Come home for a few hours.” His mouth keeps twitching.

“When were you going to tell me this?” she asks.

“I wanted to wait until you finished school. I thought that would be better for you.”

“Better for me?” She's not angry, not sad, not anything but totally and completely confused.

“You know how hectic things are at the end of the year. I just thought, better wait until then, and we can, you know, sit and talk about it.” His head is bowed. She notices his hair is thinning.

“I thought they liked you there,” she says.

He opens the box again, this time taking out an uncooked noodle. “They do. They did.”

“So what happened?”

“Cutbacks.”

She pulls the box away from him. “Really?” She hates the thoughts that are formulating. “You didn't get caught watching porn?”

He doesn't answer, which tells her he did. Goddamn him. And someone in town found out, told someone else, and … She stands. Her heart pounds.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

She walks to the slow cooker, puts her hand on the lid, and waits. She doesn't know what she's waiting for. The world to end, the phone to ring, the nightmare to stop. She can feel the beginnings of a migraine above her right eye, like a dull thud from a hammer.

“Lizzy,” he says. “I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. I didn't want to hurt you more. But it's wrong what they're saying about me being some sort of child molester. That's just fucking wrong. They can't do that. It's libel.”

“Slander,” she says, and looks out of the kitchen window. The bushes in the back are full and leafy. “I'll never work there again.” She talks more to herself than to him.

“They can't do this to you. We'll fight them.” He sounds righteous.

She massages the ache above her eye. “It will never leave me. People will whisper behind my back. Parents will get their children switched out of my classes.”

“They can't do this to you. I'll fucking take them to court.”

Slowly she turns to face him. “No one is taking anyone to court.”

“I might have watched a little porn, but I certainly am not going to sit around and let people say that I'm some sort of child molester.”

His mouth is strained. The skin around his jaw folds. He's too old to just go out and get another job. “Did they give you a severance package?”

“I didn't want one.”

She nods. “Just for the record, have you ever actually stopped watching it?”

He hangs his head. “I've tried.”

“Can you just answer the question?” Her heart isn't pounding as hard, and her head feels clearer, in an odd sort of numb way.

“No. I haven't been able to.”

“And what about your groups and your therapy? Have you been going to those?”

“Some.”

“Some? As in two groups a week, one a month? Can you be a little more specific?”

He slaps the ziti box on the table. “It's not as if I write them all down.”

“Okay, so make an educated guess.”

“I don't know. A few. Okay? A few,” he shouts.

“And therapy?”

“My schedule was tight, so I missed a couple of appointments.”

“But you haven't been going to work. How is your schedule tight?”

“I'm not talking about this week or last. Before that. It wasn't easy sneaking out and lying about different things I had to do.”

“Was it easy to watch porn at work?”

He stands. “I don't have to take this shit.”

It's three-thirty. School has been out for over an hour. She wonders what her students are saying, if they even noticed she's gone. She runs into them at the grocery store, the mall, the gas station, even at the Cape.

Greg stomps to the door.

“Are we finished talking then?” she asks.

He swivels around. “Look.” He juts his hand forward, pointing a finger at her. “I wanted to help you, but if this is just going to turn into a bitchfest about how this is all my fault, then I don't need to hear it.”

There isn't any point, she thinks, in trying to explain that, actually, it is his fault. Not so much for watching porn or even lying, but for not taking responsibility for his addiction.

“Well, then, I won't say it.” She should just let him walk out, keep her mouth shut. “So go ahead, go to your study and do what you do best.”

He lunges forward and grabs a chair. He is about to throw it, but instead slams it back on the floor. “Making those sorts of comments doesn't help anyone.”

She grabs the box of ziti from the table and whips it at him. It nicks his temple. He stares at her, indignant.

“You're out of control.” He shields his face with his hand as if he needs to protect himself.

She grabs a frying pan off the stove, then crashes it down. Metal bangs on metal. “I am not out of control,” she screams.

“It's not safe in here,” he tells her, and hurries out.

She picks up the slow cooker, carefully, methodically, and smashes it on the ground. Greg doesn't come back to see what happened. Lizzy sits at the table and watches the tiny rivulets of soup snake along the floor.

She doesn't know what time it is when she hears the front door close and Greg's car start. He didn't even have the decency to tell her he was leaving.

At eleven, he still isn't home. She goes to bed but can't sleep. Calling him, asking him if he's okay, begging him to come home so they can talk would be pathetic. Instead, she goes to the dining room, pours herself a large glass of merlot, and takes it to the bedroom. Eventually she passes out.

 

SESSION SEVEN

Shame fuses Lizzy to her bed. The only phone call she receives is from the dentist, wondering why she missed her appointment. The flu, she lies.

Thoughts come in fragmented bursts. She wonders how to kill herself, only to realize she's not brave enough, nor does she have the means. Then come moments of panic. Will she have to stay in hiding with the shades closed forever? She imagines walking calmly into her classroom, telling the sub to leave. What would they do, escort her out in handcuffs? She's hardly a criminal. She thinks of all the things she's going to say to Greg, all the things he's going to promise.

There hasn't been any word from him, and it's now Wednesday, time to get ready for group. Time to shower and change out of the clothes she's been wearing since yesterday morning.

Drained, she fights inertia and chooses a pair of black jeans and a clean, pressed white blouse. Fake it till you make it. She will convey the impression of resilience. This may be a setback, a shock even, but she will get through. After all, people survive wars and concentration camps.

The light outside is piercing. She considers running back in the house, but she can't let the others down. Driving feels surreal as she glances at trees showing off their first hints of green. People walk as if they have somewhere to go. Lizzy wants to throw up. Or have a truck barrel into her. She glances at her phone that doesn't ring.

In the second-story office, she takes her seat on the couch, nods to Kathryn, and smiles at Bridget and Gail. Hannah is absent.

Kathryn looks at the open door. Lizzy feels a chill. She touches the vacant spot next to her, missing Flavia.

“Before we begin,” Kathryn says. “I need to share a small change I'm making. I will be getting a new supervisor, who may want to touch base with you, just to make sure things are okay. If you're not comfortable with that, please let me know.”

“I'm fine with it,” Bridget says. “I kinda thought that woman you were working for before was a bitch.”

“A supervisor isn't exactly someone you work for,” Gail explains to Bridget. They look at Kathryn. “Was this your choice?” Gail asks.

“Yes.”

Gail nods. “Because of what we discussed?”

“I feel it's best.”

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Bridget asks.

Gail smiles at Kathryn before turning to Bridget. “There was a small breach in confidentiality. Nothing that concerns you, but I think Kathryn did the wise thing. And I am grateful for it.”

Kathryn nods. “Thank you. If you're ready, I think we should move on.”

“Agreed,” Gail says.

“Has anyone heard from Hannah?” Kathryn asks.

“Like
that's
about to happen,” Bridget scoffs.

Kathryn looks at Lizzy, who shakes her head and folds her hands in her lap. She feels confused. The timing is wrong somehow. It's as if last week was decades ago. Another lifetime.

“You okay?” Bridget asks Lizzy.

“Yes, thank you. Fine.” She nods. Smiles. Touches the empty seat again, and then refolds her hands.

“You sure?” Bridget presses.

“Yes. Of course.”

“You seem a little, I don't know, spaced out.” Bridget leans forward, trying to make eye contact. Lizzy glances at the floor.

“A lot came up last week,” Kathryn says. “It would be understandable if it was difficult to return here tonight.”

Lizzy tries to remember last week. Flavia looked like a princess. She recalls that, and Hannah seeming angry at the world.

“Gail, how are you feeling about everything?” Kathryn asks.

“I think Hannah needs a cool-down period.”

“She had no right to say the things she did,” Bridget says. “It didn't have anything to do with us.”

“Why do you think that?” Kathryn asks.

Bridget shrugs. “It's obvious. She doesn't talk about her husband, which is what she's worried about. So instead of having the guts to say what's bothering her, she vomits her shit all over us.” Bridget sweeps her hand through the air. “She tells us our husbands are liars and cheats, when what's going on is that she's keeping her own fears all locked up.”

Gail nods emphatically. “I agree. I know Jonah is being honest. And I do think that Hannah is projecting. You know, Kathryn, you said in our first meeting that the relationships we make in the group can be a reflection of what's going on outside, and I think that's true with Hannah. She's erupting, and instead of working it out with her husband, she's testing out her feelings on us. I think it would have been really good if she could have come tonight. To plow through it.” She punches her fist forward. “That's what you have to do.”

Bridget turns to Gail. “You're right. Her anger is like some sort of cancer. Like, when she heard that we knew about Adam, that really triggered her. We got a glimpse of what was really going on. I think she's probably more ashamed than all of us put together.” Bridget pours herself a glass of water.

“Shame is powerful.” Kathryn stands and closes the door.

“She was right about Greg,” Lizzy whispers.

The others look at her. Her mouth tastes like sulfur. One second the room feels freezing, the next it's a hundred degrees. She not sure if she's shivering or trembling.

“I knew you didn't seem right,” Bridget declares. “You caught him again?”

Lizzy clamps her hands together. Maybe if there was a window open in here, that would help. Or if Kathryn had left the door open.

“Not exactly,” she says, and glances at the horses in one of the paintings on the wall.