The Wednesday Group (25 page)

“That would just take the cake,” she tells him. “With everything else we're dealing with, let's just throw in a move.”

“Bridge, stop,” he says. “You're not listening. I'm not asking you to do anything.”

“Yeah, right.” She points to the air conditioner. “I know what you're trying to do. You think you've been punished long enough, and it's time to come back to your bed.”

“I don't think you're punishing me. I know you're only trying to take care of yourself.”

“And the baby,” she adds. She wants to fight, to yell and cry, to show him that what he did still hurts, but she can't seem to get a hook in.

“Yes, and the baby. You're going to be a great mother.”

Cool air streams in, yet she sweats. “So get to the point.”

“I think it would be best if I moved out.”

Her heart pings in its metal canister. Move out? After everything he's done, she doesn't even get to kick him out?

“You…” She gets up and moves to stand in front of her dresser again. Brushing her fingers through a small dish of jewelry, she asks, “Who will you live with?”

“I'm going to stay at my brother's for a while.”

“That's an hour away.” She turns and faces him. His forehead is so furrowed that his eyebrows nearly touch.

“I'll be here whenever you need me.” He looks sappy and honest. And more than that, resolved.

“What about when I go into labor? You want me to call a cab?” She's grasping.

“That's not for a long time.” He looks as if he's about to stand, to walk to her, comfort her. But he doesn't get up. “We really don't need to worry about that yet.”

“Right, once again, push off responsibility.”

“That's not what I'm doing. I'm trying to be responsible. Give you time and space to heal. When it gets closer to the baby's due date, I can stay on the couch.”

“And if the baby comes early? Then what?” She puts her hands on her hips.

“Bridge, if it happens that fast, which it probably won't, you can call an ambulance.”

“Easy for you to fucking say. Just call an ambulance. Nice. Real nice.” She flings out her arm.

“I understand you're afraid, but right now I think you're just coming up with disaster scenarios, and those aren't going to happen.”

Finally, something to grab. “And why do you think I come up with the worst-case scenarios? Think it might have something to do with what you've put me through?”

“I get it, already.” His back arches. “Really, I do. I did irrevocable damage to our marriage. I know that. I can't take it back. I can't fix it. I can't fix you, and I can't fix us. I'm just working on fixing myself. That's the best I can do.”

Her hands lock back on her hips. “Typical. So typical. Just worry about fixing yourself. You learn that in your twelve-step group?”

He stands, and although he has his head lowered, she's struck by his height. “This is why I have to move,” he says. “I just can't keep doing this. I'll get polygraphs, I'll still be your husband, but every time we're together, it just can't be this contentious.”

“What's with the big words?”

“Look, I know it's easier to be angry. I know that helps you, and if you want to call and yell at me during the day, I'll listen. But I need to be able to sleep on a regular bed at night.”

“When?” Her eyes fill.

He walks to her and holds her. She lets him. He smells like deodorant and soap and a hint of sweat.

“It's going to be all right,” he assures her.

“What if we try? You sleep in here with me … We…”

“You know we can't do that right now. You need to take care of you. And I have to be out of the way for that to happen.”

She steps away. “Stop being so fucking understanding. It sounds condescending.”

“Can you see what you're doing?” he asks.

Of course she can. She can see all the messed-up things she's doing. Trying to get in a fight. Trying to win. Trying to get him to stay, so she can kick him out and tell him to come back. Trying, most of all, to get control.

“Just go. Take your stuff and get out.” She knows she sounds like a total bitch, but it's all she has, a tiny bit of power.

The second he's gone, she slams the door as hard as she can. She hates him. Hates him because she loves him. Hates him because he understands that she needed to slam the door on him, needed to feel like she was getting rid of him.

She slides to the floor, keeping an ear close to the door, listening to see if he's really going to go. He wouldn't leave her when she's so upset, but the house shudders when the front door shuts. She curls into a ball.

Maybe if she would have knocked on wood the way Gail did last week, this wouldn't be happening. She was the idiot who said that it was possible one of them would be next. It wasn't supposed to be true. It was just the nice thing to say at the time. To help Lizzy. What really sucks, though, is that Hannah might be right about her percentiles. What sucks even more is that Hannah is the one person Bridget wants to call.

 

Hannah

Tuesday morning, Hannah is up at six. The day promises to be hot and humid. She pulls on a pair of jeans and a sleeveless navy blue blouse. The morning routine has changed. They now eat breakfast as a family. She brushes her hair and puts on a dab of lipstick and some cover-up under her eyes. Granted, they are miles from being whole again, but she's determined to show Alicia no one is giving up.

In the kitchen she squeezes oranges for fresh juice. Sam and Adam like to eat scrambled eggs and bacon. Alicia still has Cheerios, trying to keep up the act that eating breakfast with her family is a new sort of torture. Every once in a while, her posture isn't so hostile. Progress, as expected, is slow.

Sam's feet swing happily under the table. The eggs are just about done. Hannah puts three strips of bacon on Adam's and Sam's plates. She gives the eggs a final swirl.

“Thank you,” Adam says as Hannah serves him.

Sam breaks his bacon into small pieces. He likes to make a design before he eats. Alicia pours milk in her cereal and rolls her eyes at her brother.

“Let's be grateful that Mom got up and made us this nice breakfast,” Adam says.

“Like she made the box of Cheerios,” Alicia snaps.

Hannah looks at Adam and shrugs.

“Rome wasn't built in a day,” he says.

She nods and sips her orange juice.

“Guess what?” Sam asks, legs still kicking under the table.

“What?” Hannah replies, just as Adam's phone, sitting on the kitchen counter, starts screaming the “Chicken Dance.” She hasn't heard that ring since the day in the mall.

“Bawk, bawk,” Sam shouts.

Adam makes a move to stand, but Hannah is already at the counter. She recognizes his sponsor's name and shuts off the phone.

“Who was it?” Alicia asks.

One of the stipulations at meals is that there are no electronic devices.

“Someone from Dad's work,” Hannah tells her. “He can return the call after breakfast.” Then she looks at Adam quickly, nastily, just enough to show him it wasn't work. She knows she has no right to be angry that his sponsor is calling, yet she is. Is it too much to ask that she get through one meal, one day, without having to think about her husband sneaking around with other men?

“So, slugger.” Adam nudges Sam's elbow. “What were you going to tell us?”

He sticks a piece of bacon in his mouth. “I get to take home Izzy for the summer.”

“Who's Izzy?” Alicia tries to sound as if she's not interested.

“Our class iguana.”

“Gross. I'm not living in the same house with one of those.”

“He's not gross. You are.”

“Sam,” Hannah says, still feeling annoyed about Adam's phone, “we need to talk about this before you make a commitment to watching him.”

“I already told my teacher I would,” he whines.

“You're an idiot,” Alicia tells him. “You can't tell your teacher until you get a note from your parents. That's the rule.”

“No it's not.” He holds his fork as if it's a weapon. “And you're a dumb face.”

“Stop with the names,” Adam says. “We'll work it out.”

Hannah picks up her glass and takes it to the sink. She's irritated with herself for not being more patient, for not being able to sit and enjoy breakfast with her children. Adam hasn't done anything wrong, yet she wants to throw something at him. She hates his platitudes—
We'll work it out.
She used to have faith in his
It'll be fine
and
Everything's okay
. But he was lying to himself as much as he was lying to her. And she was a moron for believing him. The glass slips from her hand and breaks in the sink.

“You okay?” Adam asks.

“Fine. Everything's just perfectly fine.” She gives him another dirty look, then glances at Alicia, whose eyes are squinted. She hasn't missed the nasty undertones.

Hannah throws out the broken glass. Alicia finishes her cereal. Sam has a bite of scrambled eggs.

“Time for school,” Hannah tells them.

She clears the table. Adam grabs his cell phone, then helps them gather their things.

When he returns from taking them to the bus stop, he comes toward Hannah.

“Sorry about my phone going off,” he says.

She turns on the dishwasher. The whooshing noise is comforting. “Not exactly the best way to role-model no electronic devices.”

“I thought it was off.” He pours himself another cup of coffee and stands next to the counter, his head tucked down.

She detests her irritability, his submissiveness, their worn, tired rhythms, the steps that don't seem to change.

She sits at the table. Her shoulders slump. Her brain feels like it's slumping too. “I just don't know what to do anymore. I thought the group would help, but it turned into a freak show.”

“I'm sorry,” he tells her.

“Bridget said that I push people away. I don't talk about the specifics of your addiction or the fact that my daughter is a mess and urinated on the floor. The truth is I haven't been able to talk about much of anything. I just can't, and I know it makes me seem cold and withholding.” It's the most open she's been with Adam in ages.

“You're warm and understanding.” He joins her. “You don't push people away.”

“You don't think I push Alicia away?”

“Of course not. You're doing everything you can to help her.”

She spins a lone fork that was left on the table. “What if I'm not, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if being a good mother really meant that I should have left you years ago?”

He sighs and moves his hand closer to her. “If you want me to leave, I understand.”

“I don't know what I want.” She's back to feeling slumped. It's hard work, this protecting, defending—pretending. “I blame myself,” she says.

“Hannah, don't. None of this is your fault.”

“But it is. In part. I didn't go into this blind. I knew I was marrying someone who was sick, and I chose to believe you were better. It's what I wanted to believe. It was selfish on my part. I wanted to have children. I wanted to have a normal, happy family.”

He reaches to touch her shoulder, then retracts his hand, knowing it's against her rules. “There is nothing selfish about you,” he tells her.

“Of course there is. I'm no better than all the rest of the parents who tell themselves they're staying together because it's best for the children. If I really wanted what was best for them, I would have left you when they were toddlers, when I found out you'd been screwing around again. When you gave me an STD. But no. I decided to believe you'd work it out. As much as you lied to me, I lied to myself. I told myself you were really going to get better. Because I couldn't imagine living on my own with two babies.”

“You've done everything for them. And you can't go backward.”

She hangs her head, looks at her blue flats. “True. I can't know how my life would have been different if I didn't marry a sex addict, or if I didn't have children. I think about that. I think about how it was selfish to have kids.”

“Don't spiral like this. You're a great mom. We'll work it out.”

“I hate when you say that. Like it's all going to be fixed; like it's just a broken spoke on a bike. What if we can't work it out? What if I get a call from the principal and she tells me Alicia defecated on the bathroom floor today?” She flicks the fork and watches it careen off the table.

Adam bends to pick it up. “Alicia's getting better.”

Hannah pushes back her chair and walks to the counter. “Last night at the dinner table, when you were making the mashed potatoes, Alicia called Sam
cunt breath
. Cunt breath. I mean, where the hell did she ever even hear that? She's nine, for God's sake.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I was going to. But honestly, I couldn't repeat the words last night. I don't know what's wrong with her. What if she's just a bad seed?”

“Hannah, stop it. You know that's not true. She's—”

“What was that?” Hannah whips around. “Is someone here?” she calls.

Adam walks to the front door, opens it, and glances outside. “Nothing,” he says.

A shiver whispers through her, a warning. Or maybe it was just a cloud passing over the skylight, but when she looks up, all she sees is a relentless blue. She walks upstairs. Alicia's door is closed. Nothing out of the ordinary. Adam usually closes doors, but she should check anyway.

The moment she looks into Alicia's room, she sees the movement under the covers.

“Alicia,” Hannah says.