The Wednesday Group (3 page)

She takes the dishes into the kitchen, then drinks another shot of Jack, giving him enough time to undress and get under the covers. She's tipsier than she'd planned to be. In the bathroom, as she hangs her jeans and sweater on the door hook, she sways and bumps into one of the cabinet drawers. In it, there's a brand-new container of lubricant. Michael brought it home over a year ago last Valentine's Day. That, a pair of edible underpants, and a vibrator. They finished making love before any of the packages were touched. Now she opens the tube and puts in a dab.

It's only three steps from the bathroom to the bedroom, yet it seems like a long trek across a hot-tar parking lot. She tells herself she can do this, then breathes deeply and walks into the room.

“Get over here,” he says.

“We're going to take our time,” she tells him. “Roll over.”

He does as he's told. She climbs on top of him, her knees pressing against his muscular upper body, as she massages his shoulders.

He tries to turn, to reach for her. She pushes his hand away. “No, not yet.”

“You're wet,” he whispers. “Just let me look at you.”

“You'll have plenty of time for that.”

She teases him, keeps him on the edge, does all the things he likes. Finally, he's on top of her and she knows he can't last much longer. She wraps her legs around his waist and holds him close. She didn't need the lubricant. She hates that she's still so attracted to him, that even now she wants him.

“Bridge, I love you. I fucking love you.”

She turns her head. If she looks into his eyes, she'll be right back to square one, feeling hurt, in love, used, and betrayed.

He holds her. “You're amazing,” he says.

She slips out of bed and stands in front of him, hand on her hip. “Take a long look, because that was the last time you'll ever get to fuck me. Go after some of those sluts you chat with online. See if they're half as good.”

“Is this a joke?” he asks.

“Absolutely not.” She feels strong, victorious.

He stares at her, baffled. Then sits up, reaches out to her. She backs up.

“I want you to remember what you took for granted,” she tells him.

“But I never took you for granted. It was never that.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought more before you did all that shit.” The victory is exhilarating.

He stands. “Bridge … please.”

“You never get to touch me again. Get out of my bedroom.” She picks up a gold chain on her bureau. It slips, like water, through her fingers, and she feels herself break. Just a little.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“There's nothing more to talk about.” The necklace drops. The victory fades. She breaks a little more. “Go.”

“If you didn't want me, you wouldn't have been so wet,” he says.

“I had help.”

His face turns hard. “You're messed up.”

“Oh, really. That's the pot calling the kettle black.” She keeps her head high.

“Bridge, if that was all an act, that's a sick fucking thing to do.” He pulls the sheet from the bed and wraps it around his waist.

“You're one to talk about sick fucking things to do.”

“I have an addiction. I'm working on it. I didn't go out of my way to—”

“To what? Lie, deceive, and manipulate? Yes, actually, you did.”

He glares, then turns to leave.

After he's gone, she rips off her corset and stockings and puts on sweat pants and a T-shirt. She tries to convince herself that this worked, that she won, that he'll know what he's missing every time he sees her. But she doesn't feel victorious. She feels dirty and sad and, worst of all, lonely.

 

Kathryn

Kathryn Leblanc checks her cell phone. Five minutes to three. She sits on one of the two wooden chairs in the hallway outside of her supervisor's office. She hopes Dr. O'Reilly will not be late for their final interview with Gail, a prominent Boston judge.

A woman, sixtyish, wearing a long beige raincoat walks down the hall and stops in front of O'Reilly's door.

“She's not here yet,” Kathryn says. “She's running a little late.” O'Reilly was also late for the previous candidate, Hannah, who chose to sit with Kathryn and talk about the weather.

The woman, whom Kathryn assumes is Gail, checks her watch, then looks warily at the other wooden chair, as if she's unconvinced it will hold her. Kathryn wonders if Gail's substantial weight has emotional roots that might play into her staying with a sex addict.

Gail places her bag on the chair and takes off her Burberry raincoat.

“Do you have any idea when Dr. O'Reilly will get here?”

“I'm afraid I don't.” Kathryn stands and gestures to her chair. “Would you like to sit?”

Gail's bright red lipstick is a stark contrast to her pale skin and gray hair. “With my rheumatoid arthritis, that chair looks unsuitable.” She adjusts the large ruffle on the front of her white blouse.

“I'm Kathryn Leblanc.” She extends a hand.

“Gail.” She shakes with a confident grip. “You are Dr. O'Reilly's assistant?”

“I'm actually a graduate student. She's my supervisor.”

“And you will be running the group?” Gail asks.

“I will be.”

“I have only an hour before I have to be back in court. Can you call her?” Gail asks.

“I'm afraid I only have her office phone number.” They both glance at the door as if it might magically open.

“I see. Perhaps while we wait, you can tell me a bit about yourself and why you're qualified to run this group.”

Kathryn absorbs both the query and the tone. “I'm in my last year of my clinical degree program. I see patients in Brighton as well as at an office in Jamaica Plain, where the group will be held.”

“And you do have experience with spouses of sex addicts?” Gail asks.

Kathryn pushes aside her bangs, an old nervous habit. “I've worked with addicts and partners of addicts. I've done a lot of research on sex addiction, but no, I've never worked with spouses before.”

Gail's hazel eyes narrow. “I see. And what type of members are you looking for?” she asks.

“Not any type, really. Women who are feeling betrayed and—”

Dr. O'Reilly arrives, out of breath, her coat hanging off her arm, her large bag bursting with papers.

“So terribly sorry,” she tells Gail. “Back-to-back meetings.”

Gail shakes her hand. Kathryn thinks they could be sisters. Not that their features are that similar. It's more their age, their status, their ability to convey authority with a few words, a slight hand wave, and an assured glance.

Dr. O'Reilly unlocks her door, holds it open for Gail, then walks in before Kathryn.

Three chairs sit in the room. One is O'Reilly's, behind the desk. The other two are made of soft red leather. Gail chooses the one closest to O'Reilly, who sits at the desk and fluffs her short, black-dyed hair. “Again, please forgive my tardiness.”

Although O'Reilly routinely apologizes for being late, she is rarely so emphatic. Kathryn guesses it's due to Gail's distinguished position.

Gail takes a water bottle from her purse. “I must head out in about thirty minutes.”

“I can see you've met Kathryn.” O'Reilly folds her hands.

Kathryn glances around at the large office, filled with bookshelves, African art, and small Buddhas. The first time she was in this room, she had been nervous, afraid O'Reilly, chair of the psychology department, would consider the proposal for the group trivial. Instead she had been intrigued, and Kathryn was sure she had landed a fantastic mentor. But as they have been conducting interviews, some of O'Reilly's questions have been staid and old-school, and Kathryn has found herself uncomfortable with the fact that she often disagrees with her supervisor.

“My therapist assured me that you have an excellent reputation,” Gail says to O'Reilly.

“Please give her my regards and thank her for the kind words.”

“She also told me that you might be a candidate for the next university president. Very impressive.”

O'Reilly smiles, then tucks her head down as if this conversation were unsettling. “I really haven't given it much thought.”

Kathryn knows she must step in before O'Reilly finds a way to weave in her publishing credits.

“Gail,” Kathryn says, opening a notebook. “May I ask how you discovered your husband was a sex addict?”

Gail repositions herself. “I was at my office.” She speaks softly, each word demanding the listener's full attention. “My administrative assistant opens my mail. Barbara prioritizes and discards as she sees fit. I trust her immensely.” She places a manicured hand on her chest and sighs. “You must excuse me. I have asthma, which at times affects my breathing.”

“Take all the time you need.” O'Reilly glances at the small gold mantel clock, whose face is hidden amid stacks of papers on the desk.

“It was about a year ago, on January thirteenth. I have never been one to believe in superstitions, but since that day, I find myself avoiding the number thirteen. But I digress.” She fans herself with her hand, even though the office is hardly warm. “The letter my secretary opened was from one of Jonah's graduate students. My husband teaches philosophy, with the odd dip into theology, at Harvard. In the letter, the woman wrote that she thought it best to lay the cards on the table, an expression I dislike. She wanted me to know that Jonah was in love with her and not me. I read it as Barbara stood at my side, and then I assured her it was some sort of prank.”

Kathryn writes down everything as she thinks Gail's focus on her assistant is a way to avoid pain.

“Did you have any support?” Kathryn asks. “Anyone else you could share the letter with?”

“I think what Kathryn means is, did you convey the contents of the letter to Jonah?” O'Reilly asks.

Kathryn glances at her notes. No, she meant what she asked. She wanted to know if Gail had friends, a family member, her therapist maybe, someone she could talk to. But at this point in the interview, Kathryn won't openly disagree with O'Reilly.

Gail sips her water. “I did share the contents with my husband. In truth, I just didn't think much of it. I was so sure he would say it was a hoax, or from a student who was mentally ill.” Gail shakes her head. “Instead he sat on the edge of the couch and cried as he told me that he couldn't stop.” Creases fan out from the sides of her eyes, and Kathryn wonders about the age difference between Gail and the woman who wrote the letter.

“Do you think there might have been clues along the way that you missed?” O'Reilly asks.

“I think of that all the time,” Gail answers. “What should I have seen?”

“Would it have made a difference,” Kathryn asks, “if you did find some sort of evidence that you missed a clue somewhere along the way?”

Gail's shoulders drop slightly as she seems to relax. “No, actually, it wouldn't. Nothing would have really changed. I suppose it's easier at times for me to do an inventory of my flaws instead of blaming Jonah.”

Kathryn jots a few notes as she formulates her next question. O'Reilly jumps in first.

“I find it admirable that you are willing to be so introspective about this. It takes many people a long time to get past the anger stage.”

She sounds obsequious.

“I am determined to move forward.” Gail holds her head high.

“We are glad to hear that.” O'Reilly looks at Kathryn, expecting her to concur.

“If you wouldn't mind,” Kathryn says, “I'd like to get back to the issue of support, and if you have any?”

“Kathryn poses an excellent question,” O'Reilly begins. “But since our time is limited, I think it's best we stay on track and make sure certain requirements are met.”

“Of course,” Gail says.

“Can you tell me why you believe your husband is a sex addict and not simply a man who wants to have affairs?” O'Reilly asks.

Kathryn cringes at the question but is careful not to let her feelings show.

“His therapist diagnosed him.” Gail, once again, sits stoically. “Do you need some sort of document that states that?”

“No,” Kathryn replies. “If both you and your husband believe he is a sex addict, that's really all that matters.”

“He is in treatment,” Gail adds.

“Is he finding it helpful?” Kathryn asks.

O'Reilly clears her throat. “I think it's best, Gail, that we focus on you for the moment.”

“Well, what I can tell you about myself is that I am committed to working through this with my husband. I am not the sort to feel sorry for myself; rather, I'm the type to face the problem head-on and do everything in my power to fix it.” Her red nails toy with the ruffle on her blouse.

“Very good,” O'Reilly says.

“Will you be overseeing the group?” Gail asks.

O'Reilly places her hand on the large amethyst that hangs from her bold necklace. Her gesture seems to mirror Gail's, and perhaps she does it consciously. But she's missed the crux of it, Kathryn thinks. She does not fiddle. “I will be supervising Kathryn, but I will not be in the room. I do not want to intrude on her work. It is common protocol for me to send surveys to clients, and sometimes I make check-in calls.”

“When will I hear from you?” Gail asks.

“You are the last person we are interviewing, so I'm hoping we'll have the group put together sometime next week,” Kathryn tells her.

“I'd like you to know how grateful I am that someone is starting a group of this nature,” Gail tells O'Reilly.

“Well, if it's something you want, we'd be pleased to have someone with your life experience and knowledge.” O'Reilly turns to Kathryn, expecting her once again to agree.