The Wednesday Group

 

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For Danny

 

Lizzy

The wind howls, then quiets to a gray whisper. Lizzy pauses in front of the bedroom door holding a bottle of wine and two goblets. Her casual nightshirt shows off her long legs. If this marriage is going to survive, they need to reconnect.

She opens the door and stands at the foot of the bed. At fifty-two, Greg could still pass for thirty-five. He has a full head of dirty blond hair, a boyish grin, and healthy skin—no age spots, no circles under his brown eyes.

“Thought you might want some wine,” she says.

“What kind?” He sits up a little.

“Chardonnay.”

“I guess.”

She senses his hesitation and begins to pour.

“That's enough.” He holds out his hand.

There's still plenty of time. He's always been a slow starter, although she'd thought that would change after he confessed.

“What are you watching?” She slides under the covers, not too close, but close enough so that he can easily touch her.

“Antiques Roadshow.”
A woven tapestry, an elaborate depiction of an old church, is displayed.

“How much do you think that's worth?” she asks.

“Don't know.” Greg yawns loudly, a signal that he is not in the mood.

The small rejections build on one another. But she's not about to give up. After a few more sips of wine, she inches closer.

“Want to just talk awhile?” she asks.

“Sure.”

Finally, he turns off the TV. She reaches for the cord on the closed shade behind her. A little moonlight would be nice.

“Leave it,” he tells her.

She does, although she'd like to look into his eyes, to see if he really does want her.

He finishes his wine. “Maybe I'll have some more.”

Her vision has adjusted enough to see the bottle. She refills both of their glasses, and they drink in silence. If she's too assertive, he's only going to feel pressured and withdraw. Eventually, he places his glass on the floor, then turns to her and runs his fingers, stiff and tentative, along her neck.

He holds her face, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips. Her shoulders relax as he grows more forceful and moves a hand down her nightshirt.

“That feels nice,” she tells him.

“Why don't you take it off?”

She pulls the shirt over her head, glad to be rid of it.

He cups her breast, and she gently slips her hand below his waist. He sheds his flannel pajama top. They hold each other. She's missed his skin touching hers, but after a few seconds, she senses his loss of urgency. She kisses his neck and begins to slide down. His thighs tense and he stops her.

“I'm sorry.” He sighs.

“It's all right,” she says, and moves back up.

He grimaces and squirms as he shifts her head from his shoulder. “A cramp in my arm,” he tells her, then sits and gropes for his pajama shirt. After he puts it back on, he lies on his side of the bed.

Her chest aches. “Do the guys in your group talk about how they deal with sex … after? I was thinking if it's an addiction, like alcohol, people have to talk about how they're going to deal with it when they're sober. You know?”

He responds by tapping the mattress with his hand.

She waits, trying to be patient. He clears his throat, as if that will help to dislodge the words that seem stuck.

“I thought,” she begins, “when you stopped watching, you'd want me again.”

“It's not that.” His voice is tight.

She wishes she could do the wise thing, say good night and bring this up another day when he's not so defensive and vulnerable, and she's not on that boundary where rejection begins to harden.

“Then what?” she asks.

“It's…” He's stuck again.

“Do you want me?”

“Lizzy.” He slaps the mattress. “I've told you I do.”

There, it's out. What she was begging for—yet it's not enough. “It doesn't feel like it when it's so hard for you to say it.” She sits up and gathers her long, curly hair. She'd worn it down for him. “You told me when you stopped watching, things would change. And they haven't.” The words are hot; anger slips out.

“Christ, Lizzy, we go over the same shit. Things have changed. I'm going to my groups and seeing a therapist. It's not going to happen overnight.”

She isn't looking at his face, but she imagines he is sneering. “So how long will it be?”

“I can't answer that.”

“What can you answer?” Her voice is louder than she intended.

“This is going nowhere.” He sits up.

She can tell he's getting ready to leave, to sleep in the guest room.

“I didn't mean to yell. It's just hard sometimes knowing you'd rather be looking at young women on the computer than making love to me.”

He flips back the covers. “Why don't you tell me what exactly it is you want me to say?”

“That you love me. That you want me and not them. That you think
I'm
pretty.” She detests that she's sinking this low.

“I do tell you those things.”

“Only when you want me to shut up.”

He swings his legs off the bed. “I can't do this anymore tonight. I have to get up early.”

She wants to extend an olive branch, to tell him she's willing to work through this, that she loves him. But she doesn't.

He walks to the door.

“Just tell me you aren't watching porn,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I'm sorry I'm not changing fast enough for you.” The door slams behind him.

Every cell in her body feels as if it's about to burst. She wants to follow him, to keep fighting until they reach some sort of resolution. But of course she knows they won't.

She curls under the eiderdown. The room smells like stale wine. The beginnings of a migraine nag at her temple. He'll be asleep in ten minutes, relieved to be away from her. She listens to the wind growl, hating him, hating herself more.

 

Hannah

Hannah stirs an hour before her alarm clock is set to ring. Adam's snores remind her of a dolphin puffing as it comes up for air. She tries to fall back to sleep, but when she closes her eyes, she feels restless. A familiar unease weighs on her. The children are fine, life is good, but the sense of dread remains. In this state, neither asleep nor fully awake, she is less adept than usual at shoving away the feelings of despair. There is a leaky border between the subconscious and the conscious. A shower, a cup of hot coffee, and editing a few photographs will keep her occupied until it's time to get the kids up.

At breakfast, Hannah does Alicia's hair while she eats her Cheerios. Sam, who hates milk in his cereal, crunches. Hannah wraps an elastic at the end of Alicia's braid and kisses the top of her head. She has become skilled at knowing the right moment to slip in a squeeze or a pat.

She moves behind Sam, who inherited his thick brown hair from her dad. Hannah bends her neck, sniffing Sam's hair. The earthy scent reminds her of the first hint of spring.

Adam walks in, smiles at her, and pours himself a coffee. Until he's had two cups, he doesn't talk much. He's tall and well-built, with cropped red hair, and his light blue eyes are muted just enough so they always seem gentle.

He leans against the counter.

It's the fourth week in January, and the morning sun shines dully through the skylight. Hannah glances at her family, pulls up her shoulders and tells herself that she's going to stay positive and upbeat.

Adam smiles, softly, and she knows he feels the dip in her mood. He has mentioned she should get checked for seasonal affect disorder and believes the long New England winters are tough on her.

The kids finish their cereal, scamper off to get their backpacks, and head for the bus stop. Adam pours another cup of coffee, then reaches for Hannah, tugging at the arm of her sweatshirt to pull her in for a hug. She cozies into his chest and feels at home in his arms. She'd like to stay this way for a little longer, but he has to get to work, and she has things to do as well.

She steps away. “I'm fine,” she says, as she picks up a couple of plates from the table.

After he leaves, she meanders to her studio and looks over a wedding album she has put together for a couple who are coming around noon. It's a good representation of her work, but nothing that really grabs her. In the last picture, the groom is carrying his bride as she waves to the camera. Funny, Hannah thinks, how this is what she ended up doing for a career, wedding photography, when her own wedding day had felt like the biggest farce of her life.

Leaving her studio, she walks through the roomy kitchen and down the hallway to the laundry room. Even this room has plenty of natural sunlight. She and Adam designed the house with lots of unique angles and dormers. A dream house, a dream life. And yet.

As she sorts the darks from the lights, she feels something, like a folded dollar bill, in a pocket of Adam's pants. She pulls out a business card, turns it over and sees a number with an area code she doesn't recognize. Certainly nothing alarming, yet her hands tremble. Even after all these years telling herself everything is normal, assuming those horrible episodes are long past, she can still think the worst. She reminds herself that his firm has clients from all over the country, but her heart beats erratically as she drops his pants into the washer and adds an extra cup of detergent.

In the kitchen, she picks up the phone. The dial tone drones. She begins to punch in Adam's number, but stops and hangs up.

The rest of the day passes in a hazy, panicked blur. Her clients come for their album, tell Hannah she's gifted, and write her a check. After they leave, she can't remember their names.

If he ever slipped again, she'd told him she would leave him.
Slipped
. What a stupid word for this. Slipped is when you lose your footing on the ice, when you forget your keys in the supermarket, when you hand in a field-trip form for one of the kids a day late. Slipping is not bulldozing your wife's life.