The Wednesday Group (24 page)

“Would you like to talk about what happened?” Kathryn's voice is gentle. It makes Lizzy want to cry.

“Uh…” Lizzy begins. She wishes she hadn't worn her white blouse. It's sticking to her and she can feel wet spots under her arms. If Flavia were here, she would be rubbing her back, coaxing out the words.

“Take all the time you need,” Gail says.

“Thanks,” Lizzy replies. Although saying that was difficult.

“Did you find out he was with other women … people?” Bridget asks.

“No. I wish … I mean … no. I don't know what I mean. I can't imagine how hard that must be for you two,” Lizzy says. “This was something different. It was like my life just went up in smoke.”

“Did he move out?” Gail asks.

“Maybe. I guess.” Lizzy pauses. “I was asked to leave my job.”

No one speaks. Lizzy hates the silence more than she hates Greg. She rubs her hand on the couch. “Greg was fired,” she whispers as her hand moves back and forth. “Somehow some parents found out, and they think he's some sort of child molester.”

“Both of you lost your jobs?” Bridget asks.

“I didn't actually lose mine. I'm still getting paid.” She stops moving her hand. “The principal thought it would be better for me. You know, not to have to be targeted for something my husband did. He thought it would be better if I took the rest of the year off.”

“What did your husband do?” Gail reaches into her pocketbook and takes out a small notepad.

“He got caught watching porn.”

“But not for anything to do with children?” Gail clarifies.

“No.”

“Thank God.” Gail sighs. “So he was watching porn at work?”

“Yes.”

“They have no right to let you go. That's discrimination.” Gail jots something on her notepad.

“Yeah, you didn't do anything wrong.” Bridget gets up and moves to sit with Lizzy.

She would rather have the couch to herself, but she knows Bridget means well, and she would never hurt someone else's feelings.

“I can help you get a lawyer,” Gail tells her.

Lawyers aren't going to fix anything. “No. I really think that my principal wanted to do what was best for me and the students. It's not like I'm fired.”

“But what are you supposed to do now?” Bridget hands Lizzy a tissue. “Just sit around and watch the fucking grass grow?”

“I like to garden,” Lizzy says, pulling at the tissue.

“How are you managing with all of this?” Kathryn asks.

Lizzy shrugs. “Okay. Not great. It was hard to even get here.”

“It's important you came. You shouldn't deal with this alone,” Kathryn says.

Bridget strokes Lizzy's shoulder.

“I had these weird dreams,” Lizzy says. “I'm with Greg, we're having a picnic in a field of daisies, and we're so happy. Then I wake up, and my life is a mess. Like, I'm not sure which part is a dream anymore.”

“You've been through a major trauma, and you're experiencing the side effects of that.” Kathryn scoots her chair a few inches toward Lizzy.

“Have you eaten?” Gail asks, putting her notepad in her purse and taking out a bag of peanut M&M's. She brings them to Lizzy. “The nuts have protein. Your blood sugar might be low. That can make you feel weak.”

“Thanks.” Lizzy fiddles with the yellow packaging. She's not hungry.

“You mentioned Greg left,” Kathryn begins. “Is that permanent?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask him to leave. I'm afraid he might hurt himself.”

“That would serve him right,” Bridget utters. Then she covers her mouth. “I didn't mean that.”

“I know what you meant.” Lizzy pats Bridget's knee.

“Do you have anything planned for the next few days?” Kathryn asks. “Sometimes it's helpful to have a schedule.”

Lizzy shakes her head.

“You can come hang out with me before I go to work,” Bridget suggests.

“If you feel up to some light part-time work, I can look for something,” Gail chimes in.

“Thanks. You guys are so nice. But I think I just need some time to get it all sorted in my head.”

“You shouldn't make any big decisions,” Gail tells her. “After a traumatic event, like a divorce or a death, you should take it really slow. Pamper yourself. Don't do anything rash.”

“Yeah, she's right,” Bridget says.

“I won't.” She looks at the door. “I'm sorry. I've taken up so much time.”

“Hey, that's why we're here. Maybe next week it will be one of us.” Bridget chortles.

“Knock on wood.” Gail taps the armrest.

Before they leave, promises are made to keep in touch, to reach out. Lizzy is grateful, but she wants to be left alone, to get back to her bed. This was so much more exhausting than she ever imagined.

 

Lizzy

Lizzy sees Greg's car in the driveway. Her heart pauses, then hammers wildly. She parks and takes careful steps toward the house. Her brain, though, is not behaving carefully. Demands, pleas, accusations, and threats intersect in a maze of confusion.

All the lights are on.

“Greg,” she calls, afraid of her anger, her despair. Afraid of why he's here.

She looks for him in the kitchen. He's not there. Slowly she climbs the stairs. He's in their bedroom, taking things out of his closet and putting them in a white trash bag. She watches for a few moments, her heart leaking.

“Greg,” she says softly.

He turns. “You don't normally come home this early.”

Doesn't she? Does it matter? “What are you doing?” she asks.

He motions from the closet to the bag, as if it's obvious. Which of course it is.

“You haven't answered any of my calls,” she tells him, taking a step into the room, then retreating back to the threshold.

“I didn't think it would be good to talk right now. Everything ends in a conflagration.”

It's an odd word, she thinks. “But we have to talk.”

“Agreed. But not when we're both so irrational.” He throws in a shirt and his golf shoes.

“I don't think I'm irrational,” she tells him. She takes the tissue Bridget gave her from her pocket and twists it. It reminds her of the pastries her mother used to buy.

He holds up a sweater, debates whether or not to put it in the bag, decides against it. She got it for him for Christmas. It's a Ralph Lauren.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“Just some hotel.”

“Did you watch porn?”

“This is why we can't talk.” He picks up the bag, then lets it thump back on the floor when he realizes she's blocking him.

“Were you?” she asks again.

“Yes. I was.” He's defiant.

“Did you masturbate?”

“Liz, I'm not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“Why not?”

“Look, this is why I need to leave for a while. Questions like that just aren't constructive.”

She twists her pastry tissue until it rips. “I hate that you make me feel so unwanted. I hate that you lied to me. That you make me feel like a pest for asking perfectly good questions.”

“Listen, we can't do this. I talked to my therapist. She thinks it was good that I left the other night. She thinks it would be better if we met under her supervision.”

“Because, what, I'm going to hurt you? I'm dangerous?”

“No.” He picks up his bag again. “But it was volatile, and she thinks it would be wise to have a cooling-off period.”

“I can't believe this. You act all calm, like you're the sane, rational one. Can't you see what you did to my life?” She digs her nails into the door frame.

“Look, I'm dealing with a lot right now. I feel like a bomb just went off at my feet.”

She digs harder. “You feel like a bomb went off? How does that make sense?” she asks.

“It's how I feel,” he says, as if using the word
feel
means she can't disagree.

“But you knew a bomb was there. I mean, a bomb really did go off in my life, because you threw it at me,” she tells him.

“You're not making sense. I need to get going. I have a call scheduled with my sponsor.” He approaches the doorway.

She glares at him. She's not about to move. He'll have to push her out of the way.

“Please,” he says.

She grips the door frame with both hands. He retreats to the master bathroom. When she hears a few drawers open, she follows.

He's taking the toothpaste. She lunges, rips the bag. White plastic clings to her fingers. She peels it away and grabs the half-filled tube.

“You can't have this,” she yells, holding it close to her chest.

“Fine.” He bends, picking up the lumpy, torn bag from the bottom. In her rashness, she's given him an opening. He scurries out.

She faces the mirror and looks at the aqua-colored swirls on the toothpaste tube.

 

Bridget

Bridget sprawls on the bed in her underwear. It's Monday afternoon, and the May heat wave is unbearable. Her room is a hot box, and if she wasn't so damned stubborn, she would have agreed to let Michael get her an air conditioner.

The damp washcloth on her forehead is no longer cool. She had hoped she'd be able to sleep an hour or so before going in to work, but since that's not happening she sits up, deciding to head to the air-conditioned mall and eat orange sorbet.

She glances at her lacy yellow bra. Aside from her stomach, which pouches out, her boobs have grown the most. They're barely contained, but she's never going to get some huge contraption with underwire.

Standing in front of her closet, she looks for an unconstricting piece of clothing as the fan blows on her legs. She's just about to take a cotton dress from the hanger when there's a knock on the door.

“What,” she says, irritated, knowing it's Michael.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“I've told you. I've had enough surprises from you in the past year. And you know what? Telling me everything doesn't actually help me. Ever think of that?” She drops her hand from the dress and walks back to the bed. No way will she open the door. It's like willingly allowing in pain. She's done with that. The whole boundary thing is beginning to make some sense.

“Bridge, please. It's not that sort of surprise. It's a good one. You'll like this, I promise.”

“If it's that good, just leave it right there, and I'll get it later.” Her stomach flutters.

“It's really heavy. You can't lift it.”

At least now it isn't a surprise anymore. She knows it's an air conditioner, and for that she is willing to break her no-Michael-in-the-bedroom rule.

“Just a sec.” She unlocks the bolt, opens the door, and smiles. Not at him, at the box.

“Bridge,” he says, standing in the doorway. “You look amazing.”

She glances at her small potbelly and bulging breasts. He hasn't seen her in her underwear since the last time they had sex, which of course was the time she got knocked up.

“That window.” She points.

He walks in, places the box on the bed, and wipes his forehead. “No, really, you look amazing.”

It sucks that he looks amazing too—hot and sweaty, his eyes all lit up, ready to take her. Damn him. The worst thing she could do right now would be to cave. She turns away.

“Can you just put in the fucking air conditioner and stop gawking at me,” she tells him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and rips open the box.

Just looking at the packaging makes her feel cooler. “How long will it take?” she asks.

“Fifteen minutes, give or take a few.”

She waits in the computer room, which will soon be a nursery.

“It's ready,” he shouts after about ten minutes.

She can feel the cool air from outside the room. It's heaven. No need to go to the mall now. She's going to lie down, spread her arms and legs, and enjoy.

Michael cleans up the packing. She waits for him to leave, but he stands in front of the box, tapping it with a screwdriver. Maybe he needs to cool off for a few minutes, and although she wants him out, she's not a complete bitch.

She hovers at her dresser, moving a jewelry case from one corner to another. Still he stands there. “There something you need?” she finally asks.

“I just wanted to talk for a little.”

She guesses he wants to do more than just talk. He plops down on the foot of the bed, which gives a tired sigh.

“I need to rest.” She sits on her side with her back to the air conditioner.

“I love you. I love our baby. I know I totally, completely fucked everything up, and I'm not asking for your forgiveness. But I just can't keep sleeping on the couch anymore.”

Cool air blows on her back. She shakes her head. He has the balls to ask if he can sleep in their bed again? No way. “So you got an air conditioner because you want to sleep somewhere comfortable? Well, it sure as hell isn't going to be in here.” She pauses. “Ever. Not even if you take one of those fucking polygraphs every week.”

“I know.”

He sounds defeated. He should be making promises, telling her that he'll go twice a week if that would help.

“So if you know, why the hell would you ask if you can sleep with me again?”

“I didn't ask that,” he says, too calmly.

She turns and looks at his wide shoulders, feeling as if she's getting zapped with some sort of cattle prodder. Still, she's going to keep playing it tough. “Then what are you saying? We should move? I'm not about to pack up and leave now just because you need a bed.”

“I didn't say that.”

She doesn't like that he's so unruffled, that he's not getting angry or begging to sleep with her. Her heart feels as if it's that pebble again, pinging in its tin can.