The Affair (10 page)
’Til next time,
We spent the evening at my in-laws’ last night. It was a bon voyage party for Roger’s sister Lori, who has decided, rather
suddenly, to teach English to peasant children in Peru.
I’d never felt so joyless. There I was, sitting next to Roger on the patio, picking at my skewered vegetables, trying to make
small talk, pretending to be a real wife. Everyone was so festive, so engaged in the celebration, while I felt more and more
isolated, as if I were watching the scene from a corner of the room.
Then someone put an old Paul McCartney song on the stereo and I remembered how it felt to lie beside Eddie in our bed at the
Roundtree. He had traced a finger over my stretch marks—the crinkly skin I’d been almost too embarrassed to reveal to him—and
said softly, “I love these.” He slid down and pressed his lips against my soft belly. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he told
me. The only comment Roger ever made about my stretch marks was, “What the hell are those?”
I watched Roger cross his legs and I saw his little foot in his little leather loafer and felt like killing myself. I excused
myself, locked myself in the bathroom, and cried until my eyes swelled.
I had to call Eddie. I’d written his number on a drinking straw wrapper and had stuffed it behind the credit cards in my wallet.
I fished through my purse and retrieved the tiny paper wad, unrolled it, and pulled out my cell phone. Patty answered. I hung
up on her. My mother-in-law was standing outside the door when I opened it, took one look at my face, and knew I’d been crying.
“Is everything okay, dear?” she asked me. I assured her I was fine. Allergies, I said.
When I rejoined Roger on the patio I felt as if someone had slipped a plastic bag over my head and tightened it around my
neck. I literally could not breathe. My heart fluttered erratically and I thought I might be having a heart attack. I felt
claustrophobic, but no space was large enough to contain me—I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. I staggered away from the
table (Roger, characteristically, did not notice I was in distress) and paced the front porch waiting for the terror to subside.
Roger’s father appeared beside me. He slipped an arm around my shoulders, under the pretext of comforting me. I wriggled away
and went back inside.
It wasn’t until later that I realized I’d had a genuine panic attack. Several of my patients suffered from panic disorder,
but I never realized how harrowing panic attacks are until last night.
When I got home I took some antihistamines, as much for the sedation as the relief from congestion. I was fairly doped up
by the time Roger slid into bed beside me. Unbelievably, he wrapped his body around
me from behind. He was aroused. I felt repelled at first, but I was too drowsy (and curious) to resist him. He traversed my
body with a skill and ferocity I’d never seen before, and as long as I didn’t dwell on the origins of his newfound abilities—his
forays with Alyssa, no doubt—I actually managed to enjoy myself.
But here it is, the morning after, and I feel only remorse. I know it’s crazy. He is still my husband, after all.
’Til next time,
That night of lovemaking could have been an opening for Roger and me; once we had bridged the chasm between us physically,
maybe we were ready to reconnect emotionally. But the following day, it was business as usual. Roger acted as if he had no
memory of what happened in bed, like a drunk who blacks out after a bender. After sex, we slept in our traditional back-to-back
position. When I woke up in the morning, he was already gone.
If sex couldn’t provide a starting point for discussion, then Alyssa’s diaphragm would. All week I planned how I’d confront
Roger with the plastic case I’ve carried in my bag every day since I found it in the van. I thought I might put it on his
dinner plate and announce, “We’re having the chef’s special tonight. I call it ‘adultery souffle.’ “ I could leave it on his
computer keyboard with a note: “Is this yours?” I even considered dangling it from the rearview mirror.
But none of these are realistic options, of course. First of all, they’re entirely too immature for two adults
(one of whom is a licensed therapist!). Second, who am I to cast stones? Now I’m not sure I know what to do with this stupid
diaphragm. It’s really kind of gross to think that another woman’s birth control is rattling around in my bag, next to my
lipstick and keys and pictures of Petey.
In the meantime, I can’t stay away from Eddie. We had lunch at the Parthenon and Eddie actually got up and
danced
while the waiters shouted, “Oppa! Oppa!” Eddie, it turns out, is a full-blooded Greek (he changed his named from Pappas to
Bennedetto after his mother remarried and he was adopted by his stepfather). I became virtually intoxicated by the whirling
music, the baklava that dripped with honey, the cheering of the rowdy waiters.
A veiled bellydancer coaxed me onto the dance floor, and against my better judgment I found myself mimicking her undulating
steps while Eddie watched, amused at first, then transfixed. As we walked back to the office he pulled me into an alley between
stores and pushed me up against the wall, then kissed me long and hard until I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to have him right
there, but quickly imagined the headlines: Local Therapist Caught in Public Sex Act!
Eddie mentioned, casually, that he’d be going to his eldest daughter’s softball game, and for the first time I felt jealous
of his family. I imagined Patty (a short, bouncy blond is how I picture her) sitting thigh-against-thigh with Eddie in the
bleachers, sharing a bag of chips, cheering their girl on. What if she hit a home run? Would they embrace?
What am I saying? Only a week ago I’d resolved to repair my marriage, and now I’m having masochistic fantasies of Eddie and
his wife? This is nuts.
To do this week
1. Make an appointment with a good therapist (Sue Bridges? Alex Wellman?) and go—with or without Roger.
2. Tell Eddie I’ve decided to work on my marriage and can’t see him anymore. Really.
3. Send Petey to in-laws for the weekend and start talking to Roger.
’Til next time,
My period is two days late. I’m normally as regular as the morning paper. I’m sure it’s just stress. I’m not going to think
about it.
’Til next time,
I’m now four days late. I’m looking for clues: the metallic taste on the tongue, the queasiness, a heaviness in my breasts,
the fatigue. I seem to have them all. Or maybe I’m just imagining it.
’Til next time,
Five days late. I’m sure I’m pregnant. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Oh God. I don’t know if it’s Eddie’s
baby or Roger’s! And I’m frantically trying to remember what I’ve put into my body in the last few weeks. When I was pregnant
with Pete—even before I got pregnant—I was neurotically careful. I didn’t take aspirin or cough medicine. I stopped spraying
the rose bushes, stopped painting my nails, stopped tinting my hair. I stood twelve feet from the microwave, never used an
electric heating pad, stopped going to the dry cleaners, steered clear of cigarette smoke, hired someone to paint the nursery,
and took a hotel room overnight to avoid the fumes.
But now I’m just living life, exposing myself to all the usual hazards. And I’ve been drinking. Oh God, what have I done?
What if this baby is born with a tail, or some other hideous reminder of my negligence?
I have to go throw up now.
’Til next time,
It is 1:15 in the morning and I’m in the grip of another panic attack. A half hour after falling asleep I was awake again,
heart pounding in my ears. My mind would not rest. I felt like my brain was channel-surfing, restlessly clicking through surreal
images, fragments of conversations, irrational thoughts. I felt nauseated.
By the time I slipped out of bed, the panic had fully taken hold. I tried to distract myself, but every thought led to an
intensification of the panic. The upcoming conference in Washington, my parents’ visit next month, Petey’s preschool picnic—events
I’d normally anticipate with at least some measure of enthusiasm—now
filled me with terror. And then there was the possibility—no,
likelihood
—that I’m pregnant!
