So Much for My Happy Ending (30 page)

Tad was glaring at her now but the woman didn't seem to notice. I shifted my weight from foot to foot and tried to wait for Tad to answer the question for himself, but the pause went on for too long and I couldn't stop myself from answering. “No, he's never—” I stopped myself remembering all the things that I had not known until recently. I looked up at him questioningly. “Have you been here before?”

“No.”

The woman seemed not to hear him and was still watching me with an expectant smile while she waited for me to repeat his answer.

God, this was uncomfortable.

She gave me the forms, I handed them to him, he filled them out. She asked me for his card, he gave it to me, I gave it to her and so on. It was absolutely horrible. He was a psychiatric patient, not a child. I would complain. Or at least I'd add it to my three-page list of customer-complaint letters that I planned to write sometime in the next few years.

Eventually, we sat down in the sparsely populated institutional-looking waiting room. I took note of the other individuals in the room. There was a woman in the far corner who was about a hundred-plus pounds overweight. She had a magazine in her hand, but it kept falling into what might be considered her lap as she sporadically dozed off. Across from us was a middle-aged man with thinning hair who was biting his fingernails and looking around the room anxiously.

“I don't belong here,” I heard Tad whisper. I didn't answer for fear I might be forced to agree with him. But if he didn't belong here where
did
he belong? Where did the people that were marginally crazy get help? Were there support groups for that?

I sighed and studied the gray carpeting under my feet. This had to be the right place. I had spent a good fifteen minutes on the phone with the psychiatrist who would be seeing him. It took some doing to arrange that phone conversation, but I thought that it was important the man who would be analyzing Tad talk to me first, particularly since Tad had told me that he didn't want me in the room during the appointment. If the psychiatrist just talked to Tad and Tad didn't feel like telling the whole truth, where would that leave us? The doctor would believe him (everyone believed Tad when they first met him) and we would be back to square one. I couldn't go back to square one. At least this way the psychiatrist would be able to ask him about specific events and that would make evasion difficult. Of course, Tad could choose to out and out lie, in which case we were screwed.

“Tad Showers?” A man called his name from the doorway. Tad stood up and the man made eye contact with him and nodded in greeting. He looked friendly and kind. That was good; the receptionist hadn't been representative of the rest of the staff. Tad looked so scared. I smiled at him for the first time in ages. I didn't want him to be scared. I just wanted us both to be okay.

He gave me a curt nod and then disappeared through a swinging door.

T
he car ride home from the appointment was excruciating. I wanted to ask so many questions, but it felt wrong to immediately begin an interrogation. For some bizarre reason I had assumed that Tad would volunteer some information on his own. But that was a stupid assumption. If nothing else, the experiences of the last few months should have taught me that Tad didn't volunteer unpleasant information.

I sighed as I put the stick in Neutral at a red light. I eyed Tad without turning my head in his direction. He was staring fixedly at the road in front of us. I had to ask. “Tad, what did the doctor say?”

“He thinks I'm bipolar.”

My heart sunk. It shouldn't have—we had predicted the diagnosis—but to hear that a licensed professional of the medical community agreed with our diagnosis scared the shit out of me.
If you're scared, think of how Tad must be feeling right now.
It was probably the most empathetic comment my little voice had ever made. The light changed and I pushed the car into gear. “So now what?” My voice was barely above a whisper.

Tad shook his head. “He wants to put me on medication.”

I glanced at him before quickly returning my eyes to the road. By his tone one would have thought the doctor had recommended he take a daily swim in a pool full of leeches. “Um, isn't that a good thing? I mean, if you can fix it with a pill…”

“I don't want to take pills. I don't need to be drugged up, and I'll be damned if I'm going to take lithium.”

My eyes widened. “Did he say you needed to be on lithium? Did you ask about Lamictal?”

“He said he wanted to try Depekote first.”

“Oh…” I slowed to allow a car to change lanes in front of me. “Do you have anything against Depekote?”

From the corner of my eye I could see the tightening of his jaw. “I don't need meds.”

That was it. With a jerk of the wheel I made a frighteningly sharp turn onto a side street and screeched to a stop in front of a fire hydrant. I took off my seat belt so that I could better angle my body in his direction. “Listen, I know you're sick. You have a chemical imbalance that affects your behavior. I can accept that. I can even forgive you for all the shit that you've pulled up to this point, but only if you're willing to try to get better. So here's your last chance. Come clean with me about all the lies that you've told me and follow your doctor's orders, or get out of my life.”

“Don't talk to me like that!”

I wanted to smack him, but then I saw his eyes moistening. I turned away and stared out the window as the cars rushed by us. What was wrong with me? Had I really thought that yelling at a man who had just been diagnosed with a mental illness was going to be helpful? My mind went back to my miscarriage. Tad had been there for me when I needed him and I wanted to be there for him now. But he had to meet me halfway.

“I'm…sorry,” I said. “I don't mean to be bitchy. But I need you to understand that I'm at the end of my rope.” I turned back to him and tried to gauge the effect my words were having on him. “Try the medication. If it's awful, we'll try something else. Promise you'll at least try it.”

Tad nodded. “I'll try it.”

“One more thing…” My voice wavered, my next request could result in confessions that I didn't really want to hear. “I meant it when I said you needed to come clean. Are there more secrets?”

Tad shook his head but did not meet my eyes.

“Are you sure? Right now I'm offering you a ‘get out of jail free' card. Tell me what you've kept from me, lied about or whatever, and I will forgive you. We'll work through it. But, Tad, if I find out later on my own, things will get ugly.”

He turned toward me and his eyes met mine. “No more secrets. I'm not going to do anything that could cost me you.”

I felt my shoulders relax. I hadn't even realized that I had been holding them in an elevated position. I refastened my seat belt and pulled back onto the street. I could breathe now. Tad loved me; he was going to get help for his illness. Everything was going to be okay.

But that horrible little voice inside of me had a different take on the situation.
All Tad did was tell you what you wanted to hear.

 

I tried to cuddle up with Tad and watch
The Wedding Singer,
which was playing on Comedy Central. It felt like a normal-couple kind of thing to do, but I hated it. Not the movie, but the feeling of being close to Tad. He was busy laughing along with Adam and Drew and he threw me an occasional loving look. But there was something forced about his laugh, and something desperate about his looks of love. Nothing was right, which was why I got panicky when he changed position and started sucking on my neck.

I felt his teeth gently graze my ear as his hands began to explore the rest of me. I knew all his moves and had given most of them Olympic 6.0 scores or at the very least 5.6's. But that night the only desire he was drawing out of me was the desire to flee to my room and barricade the door…again.

Tad's hand moved under my shirt and over my bra. I sucked in a sharp breath. Okay, I could do this. He was my husband, I was his wife, we were supposed to want each other. I could do this.

I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the sensation as he gently pinched my nipple.

The image of Jeremiah popped into my head. He was onstage, sweaty, sexy, but there was no audience…only me. It was his hands I felt against my breast, it was his mouth on my neck, his erection pressing against my upper thigh….

“I can't do this.” I pushed Tad away and jumped off the couch.

The shock on Tad's face looked almost comical. Almost.

“I…I don't understand,” he stammered.

“Today was just…draining. Would it be okay if we just held each other tonight?”

“But…” Tad was sitting up now. I noticed that the bulge in his pants had deflated. “You were enjoying yourself, I could tell.”

What was I supposed to say?
Sorry, hon, but the only way I can deal with your touching me is if I pretend I'm with your old workout buddy, Jeremiah.
I swallowed hard. “It's not that I wasn't enjoying myself, I'm just so tired and—”

The doorbell rang and I nearly fell to my knees and thanked the Lord for the last-minute reprieve.

Tad glanced at the wall clock before getting up and straightening his shirt. “Nine o'clock, kind of late for Jehovah's Witnesses, isn't it?”

I smiled and shrugged. Maybe it was a band of robbers and they were going to take everything, including the bed
and
the couch! Then I wouldn't have to have sex with my husband for weeks!

I waited in the living room as Tad went to see who the late-night caller was.

“Sean,” I heard him say, “I thought you were in San Diego.”

“I just got back tonight. What's this shit I hear about there not being enough money to pay the partners this month?”

A chill crept up my spine. I had spoken to Sean on several occasions but I had never heard him use this tone before, and I had a horrible feeling that his words were indicative of another Tad-made disaster.

“Well, as I explained to Eric, the funds are a little tight this month with—”

“Last month we were rolling in it and this month things are so tight that I don't get to bring home a paycheck? What happened to the money, Tad?”

“It's not my fault that you spent half the company's expense fund on wining and dining the guys at UMW,” Tad snarled. “They're not even a big account and you spent—”

“This isn't about UMW, and you know it. This is about the mismanagement of funds, Tad.”

“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, unless you've been using company funds to woo some of the young boys at the YMCA. Tell me, Sean, did your ex-wife ever find out about that little incident in college? Does your pious Catholic family know that you're a faggot?”

I gasped. Tad couldn't have said those things. He wasn't capable of it. Yet it had been his voice, and the silence that followed his statement told me that I had not misheard.

“That was one incident in college. I was nineteen. One incident, Tad. One incident I told you about in confidence. I wouldn't have told you at all if we hadn't been drinking.”

“If you want me to keep your dirty little secrets then I suggest you refrain from banging on my door in the middle of the night accusing me of mismanagement of company funds. Now get the fuck off my doorstep.” I heard the door slam and Tad stormed back into the living room and sat in front of the television. I had forgotten that it was on. I looked over at Adam Sandler, who was berating some woman for wearing a Van Halen T-shirt. I looked at Tad. He wasn't laughing. His face was twisted into a menacing grimace.

“Tad?” I whispered.

“Can you believe that asshole? If he thinks he can fuck with me he has another thing coming.”

I took a step back, almost tripping over the coffee table. “I'm um…” What? What was I? Horrified? Frightened? Enraged? I looked at Tad's hands. They were now curled into tight fists. “I'm going to bed,” I finished. I turned around and went into my room. And for the second time in our marriage I locked the door.

I couldn't sleep that night so I did push-ups instead. And when my arms could no longer support me I started work on my abs. I found my Walkman tucked into the corner of my closet and chose to listen to Offspring while I worked my muscles to the point of exhaustion. I welcomed the emotional release that exercise offered me and I liked the idea of being strong, the idea that one day I might be able to kick Tad's ass.

I finally went to bed at 5:00 a.m., and at 7:00 a.m. I was awakened by the smell of pancakes. For a few sleepy moments I imagined I was still dreaming. I hadn't had pancakes since I was pregnant.

I pushed myself out of bed and put on a robe and slippers. Tad had a lot of problems but his pancakes were always perfect.

That thought gave me the courage to open the door and tiptoe into the kitchen. Tad stood in front of the stove dribbling batter onto a sizzling skillet. He looked up at me and his lips formed a rather strained smile. “Good morning, birthday girl.”

Birthday girl? I checked the wall calendar. Well, what do you know, it
was
my birthday!

Tad furrowed his brow. “Did you forget? That's unlike you.”

“I've been distracted.” I sat down at the kitchen table and watched as he flipped a pancake over.

“I was thinking that to celebrate, we'd—”

“What's going on at SMB?”

Tad was silent. He carefully transferred a short stack over onto a clean plate and put it in front of me, along with a small creamer full of maple syrup and a big slab of butter.

I spread the butter on with a circular motion. “Tad, did you hear my question?”

“You know, I woke up early this morning to cook a special breakfast for you and you don't even have the courtesy—”

“No.” I put my butter knife down. “You don't get to turn this around or avoid the question. What's going on at SMB?”

Tad frowned and walked back to the stove to prepare some breakfast for himself. “Sean's an asshole. He doesn't understand business.”

“He said the funds were being mishandled.”

“That's bullshit. There were a few extra expenses last month, that's all. It happens when companies expand.”

“And then you called him a faggot.”

Tad's back was to me so I couldn't see his expression, but I could see his shoulders tense up. “You know I'm not homophobic…I was just very, very angry.”

It wasn't Tad's homophobia or lack thereof that concerned me, it was the violence of his reaction. “You know what I want for my birthday?”

“What?” Tad's voice no longer sounded friendly.

“I want you to call the psychiatrist and get a prescription for the medication he recommended.”

Tad put a few pancakes on his plate and took a seat beside me. “He gave me the prescription yesterday. I just have to get it filled.”

I picked up my fork and stabbed my meal. “Then why didn't you fill it while we were at Kaiser yesterday?”

“I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

Bullshit. I squeezed my eyes closed and silently counted to ten. “I'll fill the prescription for you this afternoon.”

“You don't need to do that. Today's your birthday.”

“I want to do it. Where's the prescription?”

“Jesus Christ, April, I'm trying to have a nice breakfast with you.”

Did he think that was possible? Was he under the misguided impression that my increasing age would trigger some short-term memory loss? “Where's the prescription?” I repeated.

Tad looked as if he wanted to tear my head off. Instead, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed me a folded-up piece of paper, which I stuck in the pocket of my robe. “I'll fill it today.”