The Wednesday Group (4 page)

“We haven't finished the process, so I'm afraid I can't promise anyone a spot at this point,” Kathryn says. “But I'm pleased to hear that you are committed. That's extremely important.” She smiles.

“Kathryn is very new to this, and wisely cautious. I think you'll find her a good group leader.”

“I can sense that from some of her questions. I look forward to beginning.” Gail stands, shakes O'Reilly's hand, and leaves. Kathryn feels dismissed.

“I'd like to talk for a few moments about your need to contradict me,” O'Reilly states.

“I don't think I contradicted you. I was only telling Gail we haven't finished the process.”

“This was our last interview, and I feel adamant that Gail should be a member of the group.”

Kathryn collects her thoughts. “It could be because I'm relatively new to this that I'm just not convinced at the moment that Gail would be a good fit.”

“She has experience. Just think what sort of knowledge, from a legal perspective, she could bring.”

“I don't know that we'll need legal advice.”

“With some of the situations that these women are in, of course you will. We've already interviewed candidates whose partners have had trouble with the law.”

“But would it be fair to put Gail in a position to be a legal advisor?”

“No, of course you wouldn't do something like that. I'm merely saying she has a lot of wisdom, and I think you might find her a good balance to some of the other members.”

Kathryn nods. “I understand, but … well … in all honesty, I found something about her a little arrogant. Perhaps it's a way to avoid her pain, but I think it may deter others from opening up.”

“She is knowledgeable and committed. That is different from arrogant. And I believe it will be one of your challenges to get all these women to reveal their pain. That is a part of the process.”

Kathryn closes her journal. “I will go through all my notes and e-mail you the seven people I think would be best suited for the group.”

“Casting a group is much more difficult than reading one's notes and coming up with names. We've been interviewing for six weeks—it's hardly wise to rush the next step. And you will not have seven. I was thinking four would be good for you, considering you don't have much experience with groups. And Gail will be one of them. She has age and insight.”

And power, Kathryn thinks. “Is choosing the members my decision or yours?” She looks directly into O'Reilly's eyes.

“I am your supervisor. So it is up to both of us.”

“In the spirit of collaboration, then, I think four is too few.”

O'Reilly glances at her watch. “I have an appointment with the dean of graduate studies,” she says.

“I'd like to call the women next week.”

O'Reilly grabs her bag and coat. “You can have five members at the most, and one of them must be Gail.”

“I think this warrants more discussion.” Kathryn tucks her notebook into her briefcase and stands.

O'Reilly is at the door. “No. Five will be good, and except for Gail, you decide who to include.”

As Kathryn makes her way down the hall, she notes that Gail was the only one who didn't cry. Outside, the cold air feels refreshing, liberating. She hikes to the subway, debating silently with O'Reilly. By the time she gets on the train, her thoughts have shifted to the women, to their broken lives. It will be difficult to choose. She will need to research best practices for smaller groups. Earlier today she had a different group in mind, but now as she begins to visualize where the women will sit and the questions she'll ask, she feels energized again—excited to finally begin.

 

SESSION ONE

The first group happens to coincide with the first day of spring, although snow still covers the ground. There hasn't been a day above freezing for months.

Hannah tells herself to get a grip as she parks at the back of the small lot across from the rambling Victorian that has been turned into offices. A solid ten minutes early, she looks at herself in the rearview mirror. Her lipstick is even; the neutral tone seems appropriate. She's grasping for familiarity in what feels unfamiliar and terrifying. She reminds herself she doesn't have to stay; she can excuse herself at any time if she feels too uncomfortable.

When Kathryn called two weeks ago to tell Hannah she'd been chosen, Hannah felt honored, as if she'd won something. Kathryn sounded pleased that Hannah agreed to join. It was all so removed from the reality of actually exposing the shameful secrets that have become the skin of her life.

Instead of putting her keys in her purse, Hannah shoves them in her pocket. They will serve as a reminder that she is not trapped. Kathryn asked that Hannah think about what she wants from this group.
Support
was the first word that came to mind, but the more she thought about the word, the more literal it became. Support beams, support bras, support hose. Other words—
empathy, understanding, coping skills, friends
—came to her. None felt quite right. She finally decided that what she wants is relief from the panic that comes in the middle of the night, and the floating anxiety that plagues her most of the day. She wants to stop snapping at her children, stop obsessing about what Adam may or may not be doing. She wants to start living again—a tall order for a therapy group to deliver.

The place feels deserted. She climbs the stairs to the second floor and knocks on the door, wondering if she got the time wrong.

Kathryn greets her.

“Hi,” Hannah says. “Am I too early?”

“No, but you are the first.” Kathryn smiles.

Hannah has read somewhere that group leaders are sensitive to the early birds who try to sneak in one-on-one time.

“I'll wait out here,” Hannah says.

“No, come in. Please.” Kathryn looks younger than Hannah remembers. She has her hair in a ponytail, and her brunette bangs hit just above her well-defined eyebrows.

Hannah steps into the room, where mismatched chairs are arranged in a circle.

“Take a seat.” Kathryn smiles again, and Hannah senses that she is also nervous.

Hannah decides on the wooden Windsor chair, the only seat without padding. She doesn't want to sit on the loveseat and risk being too close to someone else. And she's not going to take an armchair since she probably won't come again.

“There's water on the coffee table,” Kathryn says. “Help yourself. I'm just finishing up some notes.”

Hannah could use some water, but right now she's afraid her hand will shake if she actually tries to pour a glass.

It's too quiet. She digs her phone from her purse and reads the last text from Adam, informing her of the time he left work, traffic conditions, and estimated arrival. This is what her life has come down to—his reporting his every move. It's supposed to build trust, but it doesn't. She powers off her phone.

“Knock, knock,” a voice calls.

“Gail,” Kathryn says. “Come in.”

The woman is already in, and Hannah wonders if it's because Gail is older that Kathryn seems too eager as she takes her coat. Gail has on bright red lipstick and no other makeup. The circles under her eyes have a plum-colored hue.

She looks around, nods as if the room is acceptable, then sits in the armchair next to Hannah. She shifts, trying to get comfortable. Her sneakers stand out against her tailored slacks and peach silk blouse. When she finds a position that seems suitable, she turns to Hannah and introduces herself. Hannah does the same and is stumped as to what to say next. Does one ask,
What did your husband do to mess up your life?
She settles on, “Did you run into a lot of traffic?”

“It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be,” Gail replies, “although there isn't an easy way to get here from Cambridge.”

Something about the way she says
Cambridge
reminds Hannah of people who need to drop in that they went to an Ivy League school. Gail pours herself some water and takes a sip with steady hands.

Two other women walk in. They are both tall. The older one, fortyish, has thick auburn curls thrown into an updo. She sits on the loveseat, clinging to the side, making sure there is enough room for someone to join her.

The other woman also sits on the loveseat. She is younger and striking, with brown hair, nearly black, that comes to her slender waist.

Hannah wonders why men would cheat on such beautiful women. Then she reminds herself that
cheating
is the wrong word, that she is supposed to think
illness.
Disease with a capital D. Yet
cheating
is what sticks.

Kathryn walks to the door and closes it most of the way. “We are waiting for one more member, but I think since it's seven, we should begin.”

The woman with the auburn curls smiles. Gail takes a sip of water. Hannah's palms sweat. A panic attack is not far away. She grasps the wooden seat of the chair.

Kathryn passes out confidentiality forms, and Hannah signs hers without reading it.

“I'd like to look mine over,” Gail says.

“Of course,” Kathryn replies. “Perhaps we can begin by introducing ourselves and telling the group a little bit about what brings you here.”

Everyone nods. No one looks comfortable.

“I will try to stay on the sidelines as much as possible,” Kathryn explains. “If I think the group is getting off track, or if I sense someone isn't getting to share when she wants to, I will intervene.” The words are well placed, formal.

The room is silent. Hannah wants to talk, if only to fill the emptiness. She lets go of the chair, ready to raise her hand.

“I'll begin,” Gail says. “My name is Gail, and I'm here because I wanted a private group in which I could find support. As far as I know, there are no others in the area that address the issues that partners of sex addicts face.” She looks around to make sure she has everyone's attention.

Hannah is impressed by how easily she can say “partners of sex addicts.”

“I have a very high-profile job,” Gail continues. “I can't risk the chance of the papers getting ahold of my story.”

Hannah imagines Adam being arrested in some seedy bathroom. If that ever happened, and it wound up in the news or on some Web site, she would change her identity and flee to Argentina. With the children.

“There is often a lot of shame and humiliation around sex addiction,” Kathryn says.

“Yes, well…” Gail says, sounding a touch irked that Kathryn cut her off. “Jonah is my second husband and my soul mate. From the moment we met, we both knew that we were meant to be together. We discuss everything, from what we perceive God to be to the latest state referendums.”

Her words flow smoothly, unrushed. At this point, Hannah would be stammering.

“One afternoon at work, my assistant asked to see me. She was clearly distraught as she held a piece of paper. It was a letter from a graduate student of Jonah's. He teaches philosophy at Harvard. His concentrations are normative ethics and personal identity.” She pauses, chin forward, head high.

Odd areas of study for a sex addict, Hannah thinks.

“In this letter, the student claimed my husband was actually in love with her, but he was too frightened to tell me. I brought the letter home and showed it to him. He crumpled as he sat on the couch.” She takes a moment to bow her head.

Hannah gets the sense that the real Gail, whoever she is, is buried under well-practiced orations.

“He admitted that she wasn't the only one. There had been another.” Gail bows her head again. This time with more solemnity. “Another? Was that better? Did that mean he didn't care about them and still loved me? I—”

The final member, a woman in her twenties with brassy red hair and shoes that look like combat boots, traipses in.

“Sorry I'm late. Traffic, and I hit every red light.”

“Please, Bridget,” Kathryn says, “take a seat.” She gestures to the empty armchair at her right.

Bridget sits, takes off her jean jacket lined with faux fur, and places it next to her feet. She has a small, compact athletic body. Her eyes, a bright Irish blue, are heavily made up, and her lipstick is deep purple.

“I was just telling the group,” Gail says, “about the night I discovered my husband was having affairs.”

Bridget snaps her gum. “Asshole,” she murmurs.

“I think it's best,” Kathryn says, “that we refrain from making judgments.”

Gail purses her lips.

“Would anyone else like to share?” Kathryn asks.

“I thought this wasn't one of those sharing twelve-step groups,” Bridget replies, then yanks a tissue from the box on the coffee table and spits out her gum.

“No, this is not a twelve-step group. In here you are free to comment and give feedback,” Kathryn explains.

“Because when I went to an S-Anon group, they tried to tell me I was a co-addict. I asked someone what that meant, and she told me there was no cross talk. I said that I just wanted to know what I was addicted to. She told me that perhaps I would discover that if I attended a few more meetings.” Bridget twirls a finger in her hair. “Well, I wasn't about to go back there so I could get some ridiculous label.”

Hannah guesses that pushing the boundaries comes naturally to Bridget.

“My name is Lizzy,” the auburn-haired woman on the couch says. “I went to one of those groups, and I had the same question. I wasn't brave like you, though.” She smiles broadly. “I waited until after the group to ask about what I was addicted to, and I was told I was an addict because I was choosing to stay in my marriage.”

“Do you think that makes you an addict?” Kathryn asks.

“An idiot maybe, but no, not an addict. I don't understand what that word means anymore.”

Hannah likes Lizzy.