Spin Doctor (23 page)

So Meriel joined the knot of whispering women by the table.

“Okay, something's obviously going on,” Alice said, and rose from the couch.

“Wait! Me too,” Izzy demanded. “Pull. I can't get up like I used to.” Alice heaved her extremely pregnant friend to her feet. I was very pointedly left out, sitting all by myself at the other end of the room like the kid who never gets picked for kickball.

The women appeared very upset. It was driving me nuts the way each of them kept looking from one to the other and then back to me with undeniable pity.

Then Alice, whose theatrically trained voice sometimes became unintentionally louder than she desired, said, in what amounted to a stage whisper, “Yes, but is it
our
place to
tell
her?”

“Okay ladies!” I planted my feet and stood up, arms akimbo.

“I'm not the kind of person who enjoys being left out of the loop. ‘Tell her' what?”

I was met with a half-dozen horribly pained expressions. Alice bit her lip so hard that she made herself cry. Meriel wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. Faith reached out her hand and Claude clasped it in commiseration. Talia's nose was growing red from trying not to weep, and Izzy handed her a tissue.

The cluster parted, exposing Mala Sonia's moist pile of laundry. I still didn't understand what the consternation was all about, so I came over to join them.

“It's a very delicate situation. We wanted to protect you,” Faith whispered gently.

“From what?”

My clients exchanged anxious glances. Then Alice began to
disentangle and separate the garments until each one became clearly visible. Faith gingerly lifted up a pair of aqua-colored Betty Boop boxers and a single navy sock depicting Mickey Mouse in a dunce cap and gown—the Sorcerer's Apprentice. She pressed the items into my hand. “I think you told me that you were looking for these.”

“We are so sorry, Susan,” said Alice. “
So,
so sorry,” she reiterated, and the women enveloped me into a hug.

Progress Notes

Faith Nesbit:
This client's progress continues to be a marvel. The baby step she took in purchasing concert subscriptions some months ago became a giant leap when she screwed her courage to the sticking place and introduced herself to one of the musicians following a performance. The man is also a generation younger and of another ethnicity, and Faith seems very pleased with her ability to move on—not just from her old behavioral patterns of living for her late husband—but in the way her risk-taking has enabled her to broaden her horizons both socially and romantically. I do want to continue to take Faith's pulse, so to speak, closely monitoring her in subsequent sessions, in order to be certain that she's not moving too fast. Her rapid progress, while it delights me, also gives rise to my one concern: Faith has accelerated so quickly that I want to be sure she's not headed for a train wreck.

 

Me:
And speaking of train wrecks…I was deliriously happy that Molly seems to have gotten herself on track, supporting my contention that she was perfectly capable of fine work, as long as she discovered something to be passionate about.

However…it would appear that my marriage has become derailed. I confess that in many ways I didn't see it coming, and yet on some far deeper level, I'd suspected it for a while. Was I in denial about Eli's remoteness of late? He had insisted that it had everything to do with his
Gia the Gypsy
book. Irony of ironies, he was actually telling the truth. I can't believe I didn't—couldn't—wouldn't see it. I tell my clients to pay attention to all the signs around them, and listen to what's
not
being said too; and yet I failed to do the same when it came to my own life. It's like the cobbler's kids who go barefoot and the dentist's
kids with rotten teeth. Now I realize that Eli's late nights…if…well, there's no other explanation for his missing underwear turning up in Mala Sonia's wash. I may have been slow to catch on (okay, on a conscious level I didn't catch on at all, GODDAMNIT!!!!!!). I'm so angry at Eli, and perhaps even angrier with myself. Once I was faced with the cold hard truth (or the damp facts), there really is only one conclusion to be drawn.

Mala Sonia had been trying to tell me something in that so-called psychic reading. Reflecting on the way things had transpired that morning…she hadn't let me choose the cards at random the way she had done with Amy and Alice; instead, she dealt them from the deck herself…and I realize now that she might very well have manipulated the entire thing, using sleight-of-hand tricks when she laid out the cards in order for them to spell out what she wanted me to know.

The reading was in fact her admission of adultery. What an unusual thing to do—not just the method, obviously, but to confess it in the first place! Perhaps Mala Sonia had been feeling guilty about it, but didn't know how to raise the subject with me, or how—even whether—she should reveal the truth to her rival. Had she been trying to spare my feelings or slaughter me? Oddly enough, some of the cards as she interpreted them contained rays of hope. For me, I mean.

Like a therapist, she helped illuminate the issues for the client without handing them the answer. And like a therapist, Mala Sonia allowed the client to work out the resolution or outcome of the issue herself.

Why didn't I wonder where Eli was learning all that Romany?

And it wasn't as if our sex life had dried up completely. Thinking about it, it was pretty de rigueur for many couples approaching twenty years together. Yeah, I wanted more than
Eli was often in the mood to give, but that's not uncommon either.

I…I can't write any more words right now. I feel like there's been a death in the family…and I need time to grieve before I can begin to heal. I have nothing more to say. I'm numb. I think I'm going to be sick.

Right after Christmas, I sat down with Anna, my supervisor down at the women's health center, and told her that my marriage had come unraveled. The revelation had been a sucker punch to the solar plexus, I said. And where had I been while it was happening? Asleep at the watch; in denial, perhaps; taking what seemed like a good life for granted that it was a great one. Anna asked me if I wanted to talk to someone about it, and offered to make a recommendation. I sounded like some of my clients when I expressed the desire to see an analyst who was licensed to prescribe sedatives.

Anna asked me if I wanted a referral for a couples counselor. When I got home, I broached the subject with Eli, who said that he didn't think that was necessary.

“And why is that?” I asked, every nerve in my body clutching and tensing and pulsing.

“I really don't think it's going to help. I want to see how things go with Mala Sonia. That's where I want to be right now.”

“And what about your kids? You're ready to walk out on your kids over this?”

“I'll be right across the street.”

“You'll
what?
”

“Stevo's gone. Mala Sonia told him about us the same day she tried to tell you. He left their apartment that night and didn't come back. She says she doesn't know where he is. Mala Sonia and the kids can't live there if the super's quit, but her cousin is the super of number thirty-seven across the street and there's a vacant apartment over there that we can take. A rent-controlled tenant just died.”

“Did I really just hear you say that you are moving in with the super's wife?!” If there was ever a person who did not deserve to have a rent-stabilized apartment on the Upper West Side fall into his adulterous lap, it's Eli. Not only is he rubbing his affair in his family's face, he's probably tickled pink at the wages of sin.

Eli looked like a lost little boy. I had neither patience nor pity for his predicament. “Your suitcase is on the top shelf of the linen closet.”

 

I'd tried to hold it together, for the sake of Molly and Ian. I didn't want them to see their mother turning into a screaming harpy, ruining the holidays for everyone. As it was, things were very strange up in apartment 5C. Eli kept coming and going, moving his stuff out of our place and down the street on rolling dollies. Through it all, as ridiculous as it seemed, we tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy for the children. And although they felt betrayed and confused, our kids hadn't entirely abandoned their priorities. Molly wanted to know if she could have her dad's home office as a bedroom. Ian fought her on the subject, claiming that she'd be going off to college soon anyway, and she didn't need to hog the bigger room. His tiny bedroom was what would have been a maid's room back when the build
ing was built. So he did have a valid point about switching rooms. Once he hit his growth spurt, his limbs would be practically touching the walls.

I retreated emotionally. The apartment became my cocoon and I grew very quiet, speaking to Eli only when absolutely necessary. I preferred to be alone with my thoughts. The kids tiptoed around me as though I were a victim of shell shock. In a way, I was.

Where I fell apart was on the couch. The analyst's couch, I mean. Figuratively speaking. Anna had given me three names: two women and a man. I preferred to work with a woman, given the nature of my major issue. One of Anna's recommendations I knew by virtue of reputation, so I phoned her first. She had absolutely no openings in her schedule for the foreseeable future. On to option two: the other woman. Her voice mail indicated that she would be out of the office (probably on St. Barth, guessing what she usually charged her clients) until February first. I couldn't wait more than a month. So I called the third referral, a shrink named Alvin Lee, who slotted me in. We had our first appointment on January second.

I had wondered what Dr. Lee would look like. His surname was a common one: he could have just as easily been black, white, or Chinese. Turns out, he was Chinese, and much younger than I had expected. His office, located in one of the grand prewar apartment buildings on West End Avenue, was paneled in blond wood and crawling with family photos and expensive Asian antiques. His three degrees from Harvard had pride of place on the wall behind his desk. His clients didn't recline, actually; they sat on an original Eames chair that was probably insured for more than it would have cost to feed a family of four for a year. I felt very intimidated. Now that I was about to take the hot seat, I had an even greater understanding
of how my laundry room clients felt, being put at ease by the spectacularly low-key atmosphere down in the basement where the scent of soap and fabric softener were often as effective as aromatherapy.

“How are you doing this morning?” Dr. Lee asked, smiling pleasantly and shaking my hand.

“As well as can be expected,” I sighed, “having spent the last couple of days being unable to shower!” Dr. Lee gave me a quizzical look. “The boiler in our apartment building fritzed out on New Year's Eve, so we've had no heat or hot water since then. My husband is having an affair with the super's wife, and when he found out about it—the super, I mean—he disappeared. So no one's minding the store. The tenants are up in arms, completely livid. They're practically ready to take up torches and pitchforks—”

“Mrs. Lederer, I asked how
you
are doing?” Dr. Lee gently said, motioning me to the Eames chair. “Not the tenants. Though I'm sure they have reason to be upset about the loss of services.”

“Loss of services,” I echoed mockingly. “Do you know that's what they call ‘no sex' in lawsuits? One spouse gets injured or has an accident and is unable to make love, or can't do it the way they used to, so the uninjured spouse puts in a legal claim for ‘loss of services.'”

Dr. Lee rolled his desk chair onto the Oriental carpet and seated himself, favoring me with another of his kindly, though I thought somewhat condescending, smiles. “You're being a bit evasive, you know.”

Good God…I say the same thing to
my
clients. I hadn't been in therapy since I was a doctoral candidate, when it was part of my training. Funny, how you sometimes forget that people walk funny when the shoe is on the other foot.

“I feel…I feel…Angry. Bereft. Betrayed. Blindsided. Confused. Duped.” Was Dr. Lee smiling at my pain? What was up with this guy?

“Do you realize that you listed your feelings in alphabetical order?” he said to me, folding his hands in his lap.

I blinked a few times. “No, I hadn't realized that. I was too busy feeling angry, confused,
whatever
it was I just said.”

“You told me over the phone that your husband had no wish to attend couples therapy.”

“Yes. Eli doesn't see the point. He thinks he's in love with this woman and wants to give it a shot.”

“So have you been able to have a dialogue with him at all during the past few days?”

I shook my head. “I've been giving him the silent treatment, mostly. I'm afraid that if I say what I'm feeling, it'll all come out in some incoherent rant and I'll sound like a banshee and it'll end up reinforcing the decision he already seems to have made.”

“Mrs. Lederer…let's do a little role-playing. What would you say to your husband if he were in the room right now? This room is like a safe house. You know that, of course. You can let all your emotions go, uncensored, without fear of embarrassment or censure. Allow yourself to work out your anger and your thoughts in here, so that when you eventually do approach your husband, you will do so from a more confident emotional place. Go ahead,” urged Dr. Lee gently. “Use me. You know what to do.”

I looked the baby-faced Asian analyst in the eye and envisioned Eli: pale skin punctuated by dark circles under his eyes from all those late nights at the drafting table—or not—ever-so-slightly receding hairline, runner's build. “Why, Eli?” I said, immediately bursting into tears. “How could you throw away more than twenty years of our lives together? Do they suddenly
count for nothing to you? Are they bullshit? When did you become so dissatisfied with our marriage? With me? Why did you never talk to me about what the hell was going through your head? You said you ‘couldn't help it.' That you'd approached Mala Sonia to help you with your
Gia
book research and after a while one thing led to another…that you ‘couldn't help' yourselves. Of course you could! That's what being an adult is all about, Eli.
Boundaries.
Common sense. Restraint. Actions have consequences; every kid who's ever been punished knows
that!
So now you want to ‘try it' with Mala Sonia, to see what you really have. And what about the collateral damage from your little domestic experiment? Did you even consider how it might affect me? And how your actions could damage your relationship with Ian and Molly? Or weren't you thinking that far ahead? You just went on and did whatever the fuck you wanted, like a self-indulgent little boy. You're a brat, Eli, d'y'know that? You're a
brat.
All these years I thought I'd been married to a man who was more in touch with his inner child than many; but in fact there was no man there at all, just an overgrown boy with secondary sex characteristics! And what if things don't turn out so well with Mala Sonia after all? What if her kids end up despising you as much as your own flesh and blood does at the moment? You're even allergic to ferrets! Are you planning to come crawling back to your family, red-eyed and wheezing, expecting us to take you in again and forgive you? It's not that easy. Eli…? Do you even love your kids? Do you love
me?
”

Dr. Lee allowed me to vent for the remainder of our session. When, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him surreptitiously glancing at the clock, I collapsed my head into my lap, totally spent, utterly exhausted from my tirade.

“I'm sorry, but we're going to have to stop now,” he said softly. “I'd like to see you next week at the same time.”

Rising on wobbly legs, I took out my checkbook, but Dr. Lee refused payment, insisting that our first session was a professional courtesy. I left his office unsure as to whether I felt any better and whether Dr. Lee was the right person for the job. He was credentialed up the ying-yang, no question about his background and training; but I think analysis is a little like marriage. Finding the right therapist is as important and individual a decision as choosing the right spouse. After all, it's the therapist who'll see you at your most vulnerable and unguarded and to whom you'll confess your deepest secrets and confide your darkest fears. And when I stepped out onto West End Avenue, I wasn't convinced that I'd made the best match in either case.

When I got home, the answering machine was blinking urgently. I admit that I'd hoped it was Eli, abjectly begging to come back across the street and be reconciled to the bosom of his family, so I could decide whether to embrace or eviscerate him. It wasn't. The message was from Talia Shaw. She asked me if it was all right if she resumed her therapy sessions with me.

I didn't return her call right away. Nor did I return it the next day, or the day after that, or even the following week. I felt like a hypocrite and a fraud. How could I possibly have been—and still be—or ever be—of use to my clients, when I couldn't even help myself? I've been an analyst for years, but now I had absolutely no desire to sit in a chair all day and hear about other people's problems, absorb their neuroses, encourage them to find healthy solutions to their issues: ones that didn't involve acting-out and impulsive or self-destructive behavior. Even “re-tail therapy” can turn into a nightmare when a client has no impulse control and maxes out her credit cards, sending herself into spiraling debt because in her despair she had convinced herself that she just had to have something—a sweater, an evening gown, a fur coat, a motorcycle—in every color, and then
everything would be all better. Maybe all my empathetic understanding, which I had always considered one of my therapeutic strengths, had turned me into a dysfunctional sponge, a walking petri dish of toxicity that had somehow managed to poison my own domain.

During the past few days I had come to realize that there was more going on than my feelings about Eli's infidelity and the collapse of our life together. As a therapist, I was burned out. I had nothing more to give my clients. I'd allowed my own ship to end up on the rocks; how
dare
I pilot other captains? What chutzpah I had!

I needed a break; maybe even for forever.

But giving up was something I routinely discouraged my clients from indulging in. Adjusting their attitude, overcoming and throwing off bad behavior, yes; throwing in the towel, no. Yet I was running on fumes. Maybe I'd been that way for a while, which is why I sometimes felt I had so little to give my family (no matter how hard I tried to give them everything I had left) after a long day sitting across from the couch.

The Catch-22 was that even though I needed to take a breather, I really couldn't give up my practice. It looked like I'd be heading for divorce court. No matter what the settlement, given Eli's income it couldn't possibly cover one kid with six more years of private school ahead, and another one bound for college in a few months. I didn't have the luxury of quitting. And as long as I was going to continue my salaried sessions down at the women's health center, I had a moral obligation not to abandon my pro bono laundry room clients either.