The Wednesday Group (7 page)

“Bridge, I love you,” he says.

The words are pellets, pieces of hail that bounce off a metal roof.

She slips past him and counts her way to her car, out the driveway, all the way to Huntington Ave where she finds a Holiday Inn.

The hotel receptionist gives Bridget a key card to room 135. Once inside, she paces, pulls at her hair, and kicks the foot of the bed. Her toe throbs. She has no idea how to get through this. In her pocket she feels the slip of paper with Hannah's number and hopes it's not too late to call.

 

Kathryn

Kathryn sits on the red leather chair farthest from O'Reilly, who fumbles through the mess on her desk, trying to locate the folder on the group. It's already three-thirty. O'Reilly was half an hour late, and right now Kathryn would like nothing more than for this appointment to be over. If O'Reilly spends another few minutes searching her desk, all the better.

Finally, she sits back without the folder. Kathryn smiles politely.

“So how was it?” O'Reilly rubs her hands as if she's expecting some juicy gossip.

“Fine,” Kathryn says. “They began to open up and tell their stories.”

“That sounds rather flat. Was there more emotion than you're relaying?” O'Reilly asks.

“Yes, there were some emotional moments, but we only have about fifteen minutes so I thought it would be better to just stick to the facts.”

“I can be a little late for my next appointment. Don't worry about time. I'm all ears.”

“Gail didn't like the choice of some of Bridget's language.” Kathryn chooses her words carefully.

“I'm not surprised those two would be at odds. I would have never recommended them being together.” O'Reilly gives her hair a quick fluff.

Kathryn swallows. “Well, they may not be together much longer.”

“And why is that?”

“I think Gail had a different sort of group in mind. Something more like S-Anon. I know she said she would like a private group, but I don't think she really wants feedback. I was worried about that during her interview.”
Gail was your choice
, she thinks.

“My, my. A few moments ago you told me everything was fine. I would hardly call this fine, having a member wanting to drop out on week one.” Her small brown eyes open wider. “Can you describe exactly what happened?”

“I think Bridget is frightened. I believe her fear came out as anger and was directed toward Gail.”

O'Reilly nods as if she agrees, which might be a first.

“Did you get Bridget to acknowledge that her anger was based in fear and being projected?” O'Reilly asks.

“I tried. But I don't think she was ready to see that, and Gail said she was looking for a group that wasn't so contentious.”

“An opening group certainly shouldn't be contentious. It's the time to go over ground rules and make sure everyone feels safe. Naturally that's what you did?”

“Of course.” Kathryn takes her notebook from her bag and flips through it, stopping when she sees the summaries she wrote just an hour ago.

Gail:
Needs control. Is her life more out of control than she wants to admit?

Flavia:
Brave. Beautiful. Seems like a risk-taker.

Bridget:
Young, raw. In shock.

Lizzy:
Uses her husband's desire for her as a barometer of her own self-worth.

Hannah:
A good listener. But holding back.

“I'd rather you not turn to your notes at the moment. I think it would be best if you just answer my questions. Did you explain that the group wasn't a place to judge others?” O'Reilly asks.

“I did. But I think Bridget felt judged by Gail, and that's what sparked her anger.”

O'Reilly rubs her chin. “You know, after Bridget's interview I said I thought she was volatile. I doubt I would have recommended her.”

“I chose her because she seemed to be in a lot of pain, and she doesn't have a therapist or anyone to really talk to about all this.”

O'Reilly takes a deep breath. “Perhaps it would have been better to have told Bridget that individual therapy is generally suggested before diving into a group. Of course it's too late now. But it might be worth considering if a situation such as this arises in the future. And”—she wags a finger—“if Bridget is the reason Gail leaves, it's likely she'll pin her anger on another member.”

“She seemed to get along with the others.”

“Yes, because she had Gail. But really, you must understand without Gail, she will find someone else to target. Perhaps I should call Gail and speak with her,” O'Reilly suggests.

“I think we should wait and see if she returns.” Kathryn looks at the clock on the desk. It's already five past four. This session needs to end.

“No, I think a check-in call would be good. I don't see what harm it could do, and Gail did have confidence in me. Perhaps I could reassure her.”

Kathryn pushes aside her bangs. “I know she likes you and has faith in you, but I'd like to see if I can build a relationship with her on my own. So, if you wouldn't mind…”

O'Reilly nods enthusiastically. “Yes, I see your point. Why don't we see what happens next week then, give you more time to form a bond.”

“Thank you,” Kathryn says.

“But if Gail does come next Wednesday, it's imperative that you provide a safe environment for every group member.”

For the moment, Kathryn feels relief that her supervisor won't be calling Gail, who might report that Hannah was having doubts about returning as well.

“I'll do that,” Kathryn says.

“If she is not there, I'd like you to call me first thing Thursday morning. Then I would need to contact her and see what's going on.”

“All right.” She looks at the clock again, then stands. “I'm sorry, but I'm meeting someone in half an hour.” Just last week, she read an article about how lying to your supervisor is a form of denial. It's probably true, and Kathryn promises herself she will think about her behavior, but at the moment, she only wants out.

 

Gail

Gail is fifty-nine today. She doesn't remind Jonah of her birthday when he makes the coffee and she cuts the cantaloupe.

“Well,” he says, after he finishes breakfast, “I'm off.” With his gray eyes set too close, his ears too large, and his thin lips, he might not be the most objectively handsome of men, but he has what Gail loves—an intelligent, thoughtful countenance.

He walks to where she sits and places a light kiss on her cheek. The touch is electric. Magical even. But then he's gone, and she's left with her lukewarm tea and a body that feels lethargic.

Slowly, she pushes herself up from the table and takes her cup to the sink. Just a simple “Happy birthday” would have been nice. Then again, she isn't the type to want any fuss. But if he had made her breakfast in bed, she would have been so happy. She opens the pantry, reaches behind the tins of soup for a hidden candy bar, and hurriedly eats it.

At work, Barbara, who has been with Gail for seventeen years, has left flowers on her desk and a sweet card. There are a few meetings with ADAs in the morning, and then the afternoon is free. Jonah doesn't teach classes today, and as Gail looks over her calendar, she decides she will be spontaneous. She will stop off at the store and make a gourmet picnic lunch to bring to his office. It will be a sort of inverted birthday surprise.

She's back home by noon. In the kitchen she whips up a cucumber, mustard, and dill salad and packs it with a bottle of cabernet and the fresh éclairs she just bought. She glances in the mirror. Her suit is a boring, boxy nondescript gray. To spice it up, she throws on a purple scarf.

Walking across the quad carrying the basket, she keeps her head high, reminding herself that she's a distinguished judge and needn't feel that she's somehow not good enough to be strolling along the green at Harvard. And although she knows how hard Jonah works, she can't escape the thought that somewhere on this campus he was meeting up with April.

Then there was the other student. The one he didn't sleep with. The one who gave him a confidence boost, five years ago, when he hadn't been promoted from associate to full professor. It was understandable that some young, doe-eyed graduate student who fawned on his every word would make him feel better. Gail was much more devastated than she let on. She blamed herself. She was so busy, having just been appointed a judge. If she could have traded her promotion for his, she would have in a second.

Her therapist has told her to focus on the present, and that's what she's determined to do today. People who have survived hardships together can come through them, sharing a deeper and stronger bond.

A student holds open the heavy wooden door. She thanks him and pauses in the entrance. Two young women flit by, chatting gregariously. She pictures them in Jonah's office, enthralled by his every word. Couples separate over much less than what she and Jonah are working through. But that's exactly the point, she thinks as she attacks the stairs. She and Jonah are choosing to make their marriage work.

Winded by the time she reaches the third floor, she sets down the basket and composes herself. After a few moments she takes small steps, wishing the wide wooden floors wouldn't creak so loudly. Jonah's light gait probably barely makes a sound.

His door is closed. It's likely that he's not in, that he's in the library or having coffee with another professor. She knocks.

“Yes,” he calls.

“It's me, Gail,” she says, relieved to hear his voice.

A few seconds later, the door opens. He greets her with a bemused smile.

“I brought you lunch.” She gives the square picnic basket a small swing.

“I hope that's not all for me,” he says as she walks in.

“It's for us.” She glances around his office, at the overflowing bookcases, his desk stacked with journals, papers, and manila folders.

She walks toward the small oval table that sits between two tattered armchairs.

“I wasn't expecting you.” He runs his hand over his thinning gray hair, which he brushes over his bald spot, his one vanity.

“I know. It was just something I wanted to do.”

“It's very nice of you.” He watches as she unpacks the plates.

“I brought your favorite.” She holds up the bottle of cabernet.

“That's nice. But…” He glances at his watch.

“I know it's still early. But sometimes a glass for lunch can stimulate the brain.” She smiles.

He clasps his hands, as if he's sorry he has to say no. “I'm afraid it would make me tired.”

“Well, at least have something to eat. I made cucumber salad.”

“I … uh, well, I have a meeting in half an hour. I would have canceled had I known about this lovely surprise.”

“Of course.” She feels humiliated. But what did she expect? “Just have a bite then.”

He perches on the chair and has a small forkful. “It's excellent,” he says, but she can see he doesn't want more. He's been looking too thin lately, and his spine seems more curved.

“No court?” he asks politely, formally.

“No. I took the afternoon off,” she tells him.

“Good for you,” he says, too exuberantly.

“Well, it's March twenty-third, and I thought I'd treat myself.”

“You thought I forgot?” His face brightens. He looks young, and she is reminded he is four years her junior.

“I thought you might have been busy.”

“Gail, I would never forget you.” He puts down his fork and stands. From his desk, he pulls out a small turquoise Tiffany's bag.

“You didn't have to.” She feels giddy.

“For my darling wife, who is forgiving, and thoughtful, and kind beyond measure.” He hands her the bag.

She accepts the gift, unwraps the small box, and takes out one of the earrings inside. She doesn't wear silver, and long, dangly earrings are for younger women. But he remembered, and he tried, so she's not about to criticize.

“They're beautiful.” She puts the earring back in the box.

“You can return them if they're not your type.”

“No. They're perfect.” She smiles up at him.

He leans down, kisses her forehead, and rests a hand on her shoulder. She savors the moment of closeness. This is all she really wanted.

“Thanks for coming by,” he tells her.

She doesn't want to leave yet. “I don't mind if you have work. I can wait around here, organize the bookshelf. Then after your meeting, we can go to the art museum.”

He sighs and squeezes her shoulder, then draws away his hand. “I would like nothing more, but I just can't. I'm sorry.”

“Who is the meeting with?” She glances in the basket, at the unopened wine and éclairs, and tries to mask her disappointment.

“A research assistant. She's due any minute.” He looks at his watch.

“Is she new?”

“She's been working with me for a couple of months. A grad student.”

He makes it sound so normal, just everyday procedure. But April was a grad student, and so was the one he dallied with during his despondent period. Then there was number three, who came after April, but keeping count is hardly productive. Sex addicts are bound to have multiple partners.

“Well, at least eat a bit more of your salad,” she tells him.

“Would you mind if I saved it for later?” He rubs his flat stomach. “I've been a bit off this morning.”

“No, of course I don't mind.” She's about to wrap it up when there's a knock at the door. A second later a young woman pokes her head in.

“Camille,” he says, taking a step toward her. “Come in.”

“I'm not interrupting or anything?” she gushes. Her long, thin legs are clad in tight jeans. Her hair, thrown up with a clip, has that casual sexy air of a fashion model.