The Wednesday Group (2 page)

She calls her mother to ask if she can watch the kids tonight. After a few nosy questions, which Hannah evades, her mother agrees.

It's probably a futile plan. Actually, in truth, she hopes it's futile, and yet she finds herself dressing for the part. Old worn jeans, a heavy black sweater, her hair in a ponytail, and a modest amount of makeup, which she knows is ridiculous but can't help putting on.

She makes ravioli for the kids, helps with homework, folds the laundry. Adam's pants are at the bottom of the pile. Her mom arrives on time and raises her eyebrows when she sees how Hannah is dressed.

“I'm just hanging out at a friend's. No need to be fancy.”

Hannah kisses everyone good-bye and slips on Alicia's furry pink Ugg boots, which are on the back doormat. In the car, she takes out Sam's Red Sox baseball cap from her purse and puts it on, along with her sunglasses, even though it's already dark.

Adam's office is down the hill from the State House. She drives around the block a few times before finding a space close to the parking garage he uses. She takes her phone from her purse and tosses it from one hand to the other. It would be so much easier, so much saner to just call. To ask. But what if he lies? And what if he tells the truth? Either way, she won't believe him. Trust is the most fragile thing in the world, and no matter how hard she's tried, or how hard they've worked, it's a canyon she can never quite make it across.

She slinks down when she spots him heading into the garage. Adam's car has a low, wide backside that's easy to follow. She stays a few cars behind. For a moment she's proud of her accomplishment, proud that she managed this whole scheme. Then the reality of why she's doing it intrudes, and her heart, which has been racing for the past hour, races faster.

It's fifteen degrees outside. The heat in the car is on low, and yet her palms sweat.

He turns onto Huntington Ave. He's not taking the Mass Pike.

What if he goes to some seedy hotel? Will she bang on the door of his room? She imagines his paramour, and her hand slips along the side of the wheel. She turns the heat down lower and opens the window. The air, dry and frigid, stings her neck.

The light ahead is yellow. She races through it. The car in front of her takes a right. Now there's just a VW between Adam and her. What if he sees her? She rolls the window down a little farther.
If he sees you, tell him the truth. You're not doing anything wrong
. But she feels wrong. Wrong, and confused, and scared. Scared to death.

It feels endless, the drive down Route Nine. Finally he takes a right into the Natick Mall and parks in front of Nordstrom. She shakes her head, smiling. He probably needs to look at some sort of structural thing for the new wing of the mall his company is designing. He's working, just not at the office. She's been hysterical. She's been following her husband's car, as if she's in some spy movie, on this freezing night in January, wearing her son's baseball cap and her daughter's pink boots because there was a phone number on the back of a business card. She's ready to continue on the path of how idiotic she is when she reminds herself that she's not really hysterical. After all, there is history.

She's about to drive home but decides against it. She parks three aisles over from him. He gets out of his car and walks quickly. She notices he's not carrying a briefcase. Actually he's not carrying anything, and his head is tucked down a little more than usual, something only she might notice.

In Nordstrom, she glances around. Without any customers, the sales people look sluggish. He takes the escalator to the second floor, where the women's clothes are. Maybe he's buying her a gift. But he walks through the department and into the mall, which is empty, a ghost town. Hannah tugs the brim of the hat a little lower and stays to the side, so if he does happen to look over his shoulder, she can race into a store.

Adam walks straight across, right to the public restrooms. He never slows, never turns his head. She stands at the end of the short corridor that leads to the bathrooms. This is a dead end.

She glances to her right, sees an elderly man heading toward Neiman Marcus. On her other side is a tall woman talking on her phone. No one is pushing to get into the restrooms. She takes a few steps, stops, and looks around. No one. A few more steps. She cranes her neck trying to see. If someone comes from behind, she'll say she's waiting for her son. No one is behind her. She hedges a little farther. Four urinals face the wall. The stalls are large with heavy wooden doors. She dashes into the last one, then looks down at her pink Uggs. Even though there are only a few inches of open space at the bottom of the door, she doesn't want anyone seeing her boots. She climbs on the closed seat and squats, her right hand against the beige tiled wall, steadying her. Adam is two stalls away. A faint odor, a combination of ammonia and cologne, makes her want to gag. She holds her breath.

Then the phone rings. But it's not just any ring. It screams the “Chicken Dance.” Sam decided it would be funny if that was her ringtone, and she didn't have the heart to change it. He put the same silly ring on Adam's phone, and clearly he didn't change it, either.

“I'm here,” he whispers.

Her stomach pitches and reels.
Breathe
, she tells herself,
don't lose it now
.

Someone comes in the restroom and goes into the stall with Adam.

Sweat drips down her forehead, but she can't wipe it off, afraid she'll lose her balance. Her thighs ache from squatting.

There's unzipping and unbuckling, followed by a crinkling of foil. Then Adam moaning.

“Don't stop,” he grunts.

Although the stalls are large, semi-private, and divided by granite walls, the wooden door tremors, as if there's an earthquake.

Hannah's stomach spins. She's dizzy. The palm that rests against the wall slips, and she loses her balance. She tries to break the fall by twisting sideways. Unsuccessful, her purse clamors to the floor. Her legs give out. Her head hits the wall, and her pink boots poke into the neighboring stall.

Adam and whoever is with him stop.

“Hello,” Adam says. “You okay in there?”

She pulls her feet back in, picks up her purse, and sits on the toilet seat. She's not okay. She feels seasick and puts her head between her knees.

“I'm getting outta here,” the other man says.

Hannah jumps up and opens the door of the stall. She has to see what he looks like. On his way out, he glances over his shoulder. He's tan, wearing a tight T-shirt that shows off his muscles. His leather jacket is slung over his shoulder. He looks directly at her, and she thinks he must know who she is. He's young and handsome and doesn't wait around for any drama.

Adam rushes out of his stall and stares at her.

She touches her cheek and is surprised to feel tears.

“Hannah,” he says, then stops.

She drops her purse and turns to the sinks. They have sensors, and she waves her hand, trying to get some water. Nothing comes out. Adam joins her, and with one swift motion the faucet runs.

She splashes cold water on her face, and for a second she feels better. Her face dripping, she picks up her head and gets a whiff of body odor.

Adam's eyes look cloudy. With his hands shoved in his pockets, he emanates shame, and she finds herself feeling bad for him, awkward and embarrassed.

“So this wasn't some sort of business meeting?” she asks, sarcastic, her voice raspy, her throat still pushing down acid.

“What?” he asks.

She covers her mouth, because she suddenly has the giggles. It's that funereal, inappropriate laughter.

“Hannah, this isn't funny.”

She shakes her head no, as a chuckle escapes.

“Hannah, stop,” he says.

“Sorry,” she sputters, and goes back to the sink. But again she can't get the damn thing to work. She glances in the mirror and sees him looking at her, then her gaze drops. His belt is twisted. She holds on to the white porcelain as her knees buckle. He catches her so she doesn't hit the ground, but not in time to stop her from throwing up all over the floor.

They stand there, together. He holds her as she looks at the mess. She pulls away from him and yanks out a wad of white paper towels. On her knees, she begins to wipe.

“Leave it,” he tells her. “Let's get out of here.”

The paper scratches lightly on the floor. She can't leave it. She puts the dirty paper towels in the trash, then grabs more to finish the job.

Adam tugs at her arm. “Come on. Let's go home so we can talk.”

The word
home
sits like a boulder in her empty stomach. How can they live under the same roof? How will she tell her mother, her children? What will she tell them? When?

“I wish I were dead,” she says.

“Hannah, don't say that.”

She grabs her purse and runs out of the bathroom. Adam stays a step behind.

In the parking lot, she climbs into her SUV and slams the door. Adam pounds his fist on the window. She starts the engine and backs up. There is nothing to say.

She arrives home before him. The kids are in bed. She thanks her mother, tells her everything is fine but she has a slight headache, so she's going straight to bed.

*   *   *

For the next two days she throws up the way she did when she was pregnant. Adam offers to stay home, and she shakes her head violently, no.

Exactly one week after the incident, after Adam's numerous pleas to talk, she agrees to go with him to his therapist. Hannah's been two other times, once a few days before they married, and again when the children were toddlers.

Nancy Baron, a small gray-haired woman, with clunky earrings too big for her face, sits on her hands when she listens. For most of the first forty minutes, Hannah cries as she retells last week's event.

“It sounds excruciating,” Nancy says. “If you decide to stay in this marriage, Adam has a lot of work to do.”

If she wants to stay? She should leave. But she can't. Not yet. She feels weak and pathetic. Her hands cover her face.

“You need support,” Nancy says. “A friend of mine has a doctoral student who is starting a group for spouses of sex addicts. I think you may find it very helpful.”

Hannah shakes her head no, but Nancy hands over a card anyway.

Hannah slips the card in her purse. The thought of telling random women about Adam's supposed addiction feels intolerable.

 

Bridget

The hangers clack as Bridget browses through the post–Valentine's Day sale racks of corsets and garters at Victoria's Secret. It's not likely that anyone she knows will be here, but still it would be totally fucking embarrassing.

She chooses an all-black getup, extra small. Forget anything with bows, or the ones that resemble what a French maid might wear. Nor is she into any S and M games. Truth is, she's not really into sex at all right now.

She doesn't try anything on, and she doesn't look at the cashier as she pays. Instead she glances at a mirror to her right. For a second she doesn't recognize herself. About a week after she found out about all the shit Michael was into, she dyed her hair red and started wearing thick eyeliner and leather shoes that look like combat boots. The soft, innocent Bridget had disappeared.

At their two-bedroom rented home in West Roxbury, she puts the groceries in the kitchen, then goes up to the bedroom. The corset pushes her small, pale breasts together, making it seem as if she actually has cleavage. She fumbles trying to press the hooks of the garter belt onto the stockings. It takes ten minutes. Finished, she glances at herself, spins around, and likes the way her butt looks. She pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweater, then heads downstairs to make dinner—steaks and potatoes, Michael's favorite.

“Something smells good,” Michael says when he opens the front door. He walks into the kitchen, but stays a few feet from her.

“Just dinner.” She smiles and opens the oven, pretending she has to check on something, because if she looks at him for one more second, she'll call him a fucking asshole.

“For us?” he asks. Even though he's six four, with scruffy hair and broad shoulders, he seems timid.

“Yep. For us.” She closes the oven door.

“What's the occasion?”

“Nothing special. Just thought we could have dinner together.”

“That's nice.”

She watches him, her big, burly work-boot guy, the man she thought she knew.

“It will be ready in five minutes. There's a bottle of Jack over there. Can you pour us each a glass?” she asks.

She brings out the food as Michael places their drinks on the table. His movements are halting, as if he's overthinking his manners. Another whiskey will smooth out the discomfort.

“This is real nice.” He sits and begins to cut his steak.

“Figured we needed it.” She glances into his eyes, which used to make her think of beaches and warm summer days.

He finishes everything. She has two bites, her stomach feeling tight and small, her appetite gone. She refills their drinks and downs hers, hoping a buzz will give her more courage.

“Not hungry?” he asks, looking at her plate.

“I guess I have other things on my mind.” She does her best impression of sultry.

“God, I've missed you.” He reaches over and runs his fingers through her hair.

She takes a deep breath and leans toward him. They kiss. His mouth tastes salty, and despite it all, a part of her is coming alive.

She tries to pull away. “You go ahead upstairs. I'll take care of the dishes and meet you in bed.”

He doesn't let her go. He keeps kissing her. She has to push hard against his chest to free herself from his grip. “I'll be up in a sec,” she tells him.

“I love you so fucking much,” he says.

“Go, or I might change my mind.”