I expect him to raise an eyebrow or squint, do something to show that he now understands why a perfectly sensible person is in his office. Instead, he nods, conveying only that he comprehends the meaning of my words.
“I saw him and a woman at a restaurant. He didn’t see me. They were flirting, sitting really close. He held her hand.”
Dr. Williams’s mouth pinches on one side. “I can understand that being very hurtful.”
The statement is too careful. I want him to side with me, tell me my husband is a jerk and I don’t deserve that kind of treatment. His lack of indignation indicates that he’s reserving judgment. Maybe he wonders whether my husband is fleeing a paranoid, jealous type that stalks his every move.
“I wasn’t spying on him. I’m not like that. It happened by accident. I was out walking the baby and thought I’d surprise him at work. I passed a restaurant near his office, and he was in there with her.”
“Is this the first time you believe he’s been unfaithful?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve thought he was unfaithful before?”
“No. I always thought he was happy.” My voice cracks as I lament my own na?veté. I try to cover it with a fake laugh. “Clearly, though, I’m not that observant.”
He winces at my self-criticism. “Well, it could be that this is his first time. And,” he says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, “here’s the big secret about cheating. Most people who do it aren’t unhappy in their marriage. Usually, they’re unhappy with themselves.”
The statement sounds like a shrink platitude. The third-person equivalent of “it’s not you, it’s me.” I don’t buy it. Jake’s job is intense, but he enjoys it. And he wanted to be a father. I must be doing something, or not doing something, that is driving him away. Or she’s doing something that I’ve never thought of.
“So how are you handling this?”
“I’m here.”
“Does he know that you know?” His expression is blank, nonjudgmental. His big eyes say, You can trust me. I’ve fallen for that before.
“Look. I know I’m supposed to be a feminist and rage against him. Tell him that I will not stand for this. He can leave. I’ll do it all on my own. Take care of the baby, of myself, of our finances.” I gesture to the carriage. “But she’s not even six weeks old, and I had this idea of her life, you know? It involved two parents.”
“Well, she can have two parents whether or not you stay with your spouse.” He tilts his head and gives me a weak smile. “In my line of work, you see plenty of separated couples. As long as both adults agree to be part of their kids’ lives, the children will have both parents.”
Until someone gets a job offer several states away or remarries or has children with someone else. I close my eyes to keep them from rolling. “That wasn’t my experience.”
“Your parents aren’t still together?”
“Like half of America’s.”
“When did they separate?”
A familiar anger wells within me. Questions about my childhood pick at old wounds. I can’t handle them while licking fresh ones. “Does it matter?”
“It can.”
“I’m sorry, I just really didn’t come here to talk about my youth. I’m here to discuss my husband.”
He sits back in the chair and bestows a kind smile, showing he doesn’t take offense to my snippiness. “Of course. What do you want to tell me about him?”
I picture Jake’s clear-blue eyes. The way he rubbed my back last night, playing the supportive spouse after sleeping with another woman. The smell of his freshly washed skin. “We can start with him being a lying psychopathic shit.”
“And yet you’re thinking of staying with him.”
“For Vicky.”
“Only Vicky?”
An image of Jake’s face on a recent dinner date flickers into view. He’s laughing. I can always crack him up. For a moment, I think I might start crying again, but I’ve used up my supply of salt water. The prior night has left me with an emotional hangover. There’s nothing left in me except bile. “I don’t know,” I say finally. “Maybe that’s why I’m here.”
Dr. Williams scratches at the side of his goatee and nods for me to continue. I lack the energy. Instead, I unlock the stroller and pull it toward me so that I can be cheered by my baby. She lies inside, button nose and bald head. The sight threatens more dry sobs. She resembles her father.
I direct my attention to my lap. The air conditioner hisses. Children play outside. High-pitched conversations and squeals penetrate the window. I try to pick out words. Identify street sounds. Anything not to feel.
“What do you think would happen if you left?”
“She’d win.”
The doctor opens a palm and gestures to me. “She . . . the other woman?”
“Yes.”
“What would she win?”
“My life.”
“Your life is your husband?”
“My life is my family. Me, my husband, and Vicky.”
“If your husband cheats throughout your marriage, would that still be a good life?”
He’s lobbing questions too fast, a tennis machine on an expert-level setting. I can’t volley this. I raise my hand as if to block another inquiry from flying at my face. “I don’t know.” A weak answer. How pathetic I must look to a man like him. I cover my face with my hands and lament my life. Respected journalism career, beautiful baby, loving husband: it was all a sham with a charlatan at its center. And yet, I want nothing more than to return to the mirage, to stick my finger down my throat and spit up the red pill. But I can’t. He’s been seen. I’ll never forget what Jake is really capable of, who he really is. I’ll never erase his lover’s face.
Something soft brushes against my forearm. I lower my palms, revealing my psychiatrist’s outstretched hand. A tissue waves between his fingers like a surrender flag.
For a moment, I’m offended. I’m not crying. Then I realize that it’s a way for him to get my hands away from my face. “Sorry,” I say.
“No need to be sorry. You’re dealing with a serious betrayal. Feeling upset is natural.”
I twist the tissue with both hands. “Is it natural to want them to just die?”
He cocks his head to his shoulder and offers a noncommittal shrug.
The digital clock on his desk shows three minutes till. Somehow, an hour has passed. Sadness has slowed my mental processes. The questions that had seemed to fire at me were, in all likelihood, offered after minutes of mulling over my thoughts. Dr. Williams follows my eyeline. “We’ll talk again?” His voice rises in a question. Jake’s only made the one appointment.
Despite everything I think about this doctor’s inability to help me, I find myself nodding.
“How about next Friday?” He walks to a closed laptop on his desk and opens it. A calendar is on the screen. “Does this time work?”
“I don’t really have a napping schedule for Vicky.”
“Is there another time that is better? Usually, I recommend once a week, but seeing as how something pretty traumatic has happened, I think it would be best to come a bit more frequently at first.”
I look at my newborn, pupils moving beneath thin eyelids. She sleeps most of the day now, waking up only to feed and briefly play before her next nap. The pediatrician blamed a six-week growth spurt. She’d said it often lasts until two months. “Okay. This is good.”
He hits a few keys on his computer and informs me that I’ll get an e-mail confirmation. I sniffle a thank you. Part of me wishes I could come sooner. How will I stomach my husband in the interim? What will I do with the time in between?
LIZA