Wednesdays At One: A Novel, page 10
“Look at me, Greg,” Mira said, her voice gentle but firm.
He shook his head. He was remembering how in that moment in the car, he had made a decision that would change the course of his life and the lives of others. It seemed clear Mira already knew this. He wasn’t sure how. Had she been there that night? Was she a bystander, or a relative? Or was she simply a trained psychologist, using what little information he’d fed her to piece together the story? Maybe she was fishing, like a fortune teller or a tarot card reader, using vague suggestions to make him think she knew more than she did. Except something told him that it wasn’t a trick. She leaned toward him and encircled his wrists with her fingers. She tried to guide his hands away from his face, but he held them there, straining against her clasp. “No,” he told her.
“It’s okay,” she said, pulling steadily. When he blinked into the rain-darkened room, he saw she was there, her eyes kind, her cool fingers still lightly wrapped around his wrists. Without letting go of him, she slid her slender hands down a few inches until they caught in his.
“I did something terrible, and I hate myself for it,” he said, trembling. “And I’ve never let anyone love me because of it, not even my wife. I—” He tried to cover his face again, but Mira held tight.
“You what?”
“I’m ready to tell Liv everything, because it’s time. But I may lose her. I will lose her, and the kids.” He tipped back his head like he had downed a shot of whiskey and stayed that way, his face hot, his throat burning, staring at the ceiling so he didn’t have to look at her. “I sense that you understand what I’m saying.”
Mira reached out and placed her hand behind his head. A current of connection passed between them. She danced the pads of her fingers along the base of his skull until he lowered his face to her thin shoulder. This was how he had fallen asleep every night for the past three weeks: pretending she was holding him as he buried his nose in her neck. There he found the source of the scents in her scarf and something else, too, that resinous smell that he now recognized: marigolds, his favorite flower. He inhaled sharply, while the tears, hot and unstoppable, streamed down his face.
“You’re not the only one in pain, Greg.”
“I know that,” he said.
“But do you? Really? Or do you just tell yourself that?”
He pulled back just enough so she could see his eyes. He needed her to understand that he absolutely did know. “It’s why I became a psychologist,” he said. “To help people with their pain. To make up for what I did.”
Mira squeezed his hands. Her face looked so open, so inviting. He leaned forward to kiss her. She drew back, surprised but somehow not angry.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Gregory said, hating himself even more. He’d ruined the moment. He just hoped he hadn’t ruined everything.
“That’s not what we’re here for,” Mira said. “You have work to do.”
“Of course,” he said. “It’s just—”
“Just?”
“I feel so much less hopeless when you’re here. I thought maybe you—”
“You need to face some things,” she insisted. “Let’s stay focused on that.”
Gregory felt the heat of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. He couldn’t answer, but he made himself nod.
“You don’t really believe anyone has suffered the way you have,” Mira said. “You think you’re singular in that way.”
After a second of consideration, he shook his head. “No,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “You do. And you know you do. I’ve seen it.”
She released him into his chair, letting go of him so gently—the way he used to put down his children in their cribs—that he continued to feel her touch even when they were no longer physically attached. “Never mind that. The only thing that matters right now is that you hold on to a little bit of hope.”
“But, Mira, I need to understand. What do you mean by seen? Have you been watching me?” He thought of the eyes in the garage window. Were they hers?
“If you’ve been feeling watched, maybe that’s a good thing,” she said. “You’re becoming more self-reflective and ready to change. A sign of hope.”
He sat back carefully. “Hope?” The word, so round and hollow, felt foreign in his mouth. He said it again, “Hope,” this time trying to taste the meaning before it escaped like a ring of smoke. “Mira?”
“Yes?”
He wanted to ask, Who are you? But he was terrified of the answer.
He opened his hand as if reaching for something, the way he sometimes tried to catch the beacon of light that streamed through the garage window. He closed his hand around the feeling and pulled his fist to his chest.
Mira smiled at his hand, now resting over his heart. “That’s right,” she mouthed, as if trying not to scare something away. “Hold on to it.” She stood quietly and started to steal soundlessly out of the office.
“Wait,” Gregory whispered.
She stopped.
“Please don’t leave.”
“That’s not fair to your other clients coming in today. They need you, too.”
She said it so firmly, he had to think about it. Did she consider herself a client? He realized in that moment that he had stopped seeing her that way. Before meeting Mira, he had always been able to sit in his office and suppress his own demons. If anything, his shameful past allowed him to recognize the fundamental good in everyone, even his most self-loathing clients. He listened to their pain, helped them understand its roots, and then provided means to sever those connections to their present life. He certainly hadn’t been giving Mira that same attention. And he had stopped considering why she had sought him out, even if she claimed he had asked her to come, which he hadn’t.
How could he be so selfish?
“Maybe we can schedule another session for later in the week. To focus on you.”
Mira hesitated. “That’s a kind offer, Greg. But this is all I can find the time and energy for right now. It’s challenging enough for me to get here.”
“Where do you live? Could I come to you?”
She paused, as if considering the idea. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
He was mad at himself for asking. Of course, it wouldn’t be, but the boundaries had gotten so blurry. He didn’t physically touch his clients. He didn’t unload his problems on them, expose them to his emotional wounds, or try to kiss them. What was this?
“Mira!” he called, just as she was about to shut the door. “Next week let’s work on why you’re here.”
She glanced back in and gave him a slight smile.
“Wednesday at one?” Gregory said.
“Will you be available?” she asked.
“I will,” he answered. “I promise.”
13
At 5:50, after his last client, Gregory texted Liv: Going to be late. Don’t wait on dinner. She responded with a thumbs-up emoji, which Gregory interpreted as a truce in their standoff. Maybe Phil had reported back to her “no affair.”
A few seconds later she wrote: Reservation for tomorrow? This time she added two red heart emojis. He checked the calendar. July 18, their anniversary. Unless they were away on vacation, they always celebrated at the River Club, the setting for their wedding reception twenty-two years ago. That night, their two hundred guests were treated to a cocktail hour with a spare-no-expense raw bar by the pool, followed by a sit-down surf-and-turf dinner and, later, dancing past midnight to a nine-piece R&B band. Gregory thought he would have enjoyed the wedding more if he hadn’t been so conscious of his father walking around, shaking his head at the extravagance. How the hell many mortgage payments did this set you back? Gregory’s mother, Carol, with her gray hair curled and styled on top of her head, laughed and danced with abandon. This is like a dream, she whispered as she glided past in her long, lavender dress, champagne flute in hand. And maybe it was her dream, that for one day of her life she could celebrate with joy, fully exempt from her husband’s control.
Gregory and Liv always dined at the same private table at the far end of the restaurant, overlooking the golf course. Though he’d never say it to Liv, Gregory wasn’t able to fully enjoy the view; it made him think of all the chemicals and excessive use of natural resources needed to achieve the bright green color of the turf. To Liv, the River Club was Stimson family sacred ground. Her father’s name was engraved on at least five tournament plaques.
A quick phone call to the club’s front desk and Gregory was connected to the dining room.
“I believe this is your twenty-second?” Calvin, the tenured maître d’ said after confirming their reservation. Although he pretended to be checking, Calvin knew every birthday and relevant anniversary of all of the longtime club members. He also knew their food tastes, favorite drink, and preferred brand of liquor. Liv and her friends, all legacies who grew up going there, nicknamed him “the club angel” for his ability to make every member feel cared for, even adored.
After hanging up with Calvin, Gregory texted Liv: All set for 7 tomorrow. He turned off his phone for the five-mile walk to Cambridge. He had taken the T to work that morning because his car was in the shop, but he couldn’t bear the idea of riding public transportation home and enduring the jostle of the rush-hour crowd. He wanted to preserve the feeling of his cheek on Mira’s shoulder, the grainy texture of her blouse against his ear, the scent of marigolds, and above all, the rare sense of being understood. When had he last felt so seen but without judgment? Hope. He didn’t remember what it felt like, but he repeated the word with every step, as if he were teaching himself the possibility. Hope, hope, hope, hope.
The rain had cleared, but the sky was still overcast. Mood weather, his sister called it. Once out of the twisted streets of Boston, he walked slowly inside that comforting haze of memory. He barely recognized the landmarks so familiar to him from the evenings in which he changed from his work clothes into running shorts and sneakers and jogged home along the Charles: the Longfellow Bridge, the bustle of Harvard Square, and the expansive lawn at the Kennedy School. Today he was propelled not by the sights but by a sense of feeling awake. Over and again, he relived the moment of Mira holding his hands, then the light press of her fingers to the back of his head before she pulled him to her shoulder.
Who was this woman who understood him better than his family did? Better than he understood himself? Three weeks in, he had no idea, but he was determined to find out next Wednesday and give Mira whatever support she needed.
When he arrived home, almost two hours later, Gregory stood at the foot of his driveway and admired the house, as if he were someone passing by. The moss-green shingles blended into the gray sky. When he turned his phone back on, he saw that Phil had called three times and left a voice message. He’d also sent a text: Got a minute to talk?
“What the hell?” Gregory muttered, ignoring the text and tucking the phone in his pocket. He was about to head inside when he stopped. Phil’s maroon mountain bike was lying in the grass next to the front steps. “Shit.” He did an about-face and started speed walking down the driveway toward the garage, when he heard Phil behind him calling, “Gregory! Hold up a minute.”
Gregory turned slowly to see Phil coming toward him, his bike helmet perched preposterously on his head. His eyes were wide, and he was out of breath. Had he been in there talking to Liv, waiting for Gregory to come home?
“Hey, Phil,” Gregory said, unable to mask his annoyance. “What’s going on?”
Phil forced a laugh. “Beth is still baking up a storm, even in this heat. I just brought Liv a loaf of sourdough; it was a nice pretext to swing by.”
Gregory stood with his hands on his hips. “You’ve been lighting up my phone. What is it that couldn’t wait?”
Phil drew a breath and countered Gregory’s tension with a soft smile. “I started thinking more about our talk this afternoon and wanted to follow up.”
“Apparently you already have.” Gregory nodded at the house.
Phil shook his head. “I didn’t tell Liv anything specific, just that we spoke.”
“Okay.”
“Did your friend ever show up?”
“Phil, this isn’t something I care to discuss right now. And honestly, it’s none of your business.”
“So she did.”
“Jesus, Phil. What is this about?” Gregory knew Phil’s modus operandi, how he always had to understand the nuances of any situation. It distinguished him as a therapist. With his mixture of doggedness and empathy, he was able to help the most intractable patients.
“That person you mentioned a few weeks ago—the guy who turned the tables on you in therapy, that’s this person isn’t it? This woman?”
Gregory drew a long, exasperated breath and looked up at the pewter-colored sky. He just wanted to have a quick dinner then get to work in the garden. “I don’t know what to say to that, but right now I’m feeling ambushed. Wasn’t our talk at the office enough of a scolding for one day?”
“That’s not what this is,” Phil said. “I respect your privacy and have known you to make good choices.” Phil paused as if choosing his words with care. “We have an excellent working relationship, but that’s dependent on us always being honest with each other.”
“Really? You’ve always been honest with me?”
Phil removed his helmet, freeing his hair, damp and matted. Sweat trickled from his brow. “I refer patients to you on a regular basis, so it’s my job to make sure your boundaries are rock solid. If there’s something untoward going on in your practice, I need to know that.”
It was a gut punch. Gregory felt vulnerable enough after his session with Mira, and now this—Phil talking to him with uncharacteristic sternness, demanding information that Gregory wasn’t about to share. Yes, they were colleagues, but there was no confusion: Phil was the lead dog.
“I can think of a few times when you haven’t been honest with me,” Gregory said, taking a risk. “And if you’re accusing me of indiscretions, well, isn’t that a bit of the pot calling the kettle black?” He gave Phil a warning look.
Phil lifted a finger toward Gregory. “Never with a patient.”
Gregory looked him hard in the eye, trying not to reveal anything. “Then you’ll be happy to know I can say the same.”
Phil nodded, still reading Gregory’s eyes. “Okay. Okay. Got it. I’m sorry if I overstepped. It’s just that I left the office today and had this feeling that you were going to get yourself in trouble, and that would impact my patients, too.”
“And you didn’t tell any of this to Liv?”
“No.”
The men stood in silence for a moment. Phil returned his helmet to his head and looked around the yard. “Garden looks good.”
Gregory nodded, his throat felt tight and dry. “All that spring rain.”
Phil nodded. “Yeah. And listen, Gregory. I’m not trying to stir something up, but you know I’m protective of Liv. Always have been. She was such a friend to Kathy when—”
“I understand.” Gregory didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Phil already knew too much. “Can we please shelve this one?”
Phil nodded, but Gregory didn’t trust him not to keep pressing the matter.
14
Thursday morning, before Gregory could suggest meeting at the club in separate cars, Liv said, “If you pick me up at six, I can have a glass of wine or two with our anniversary dinner.” There was nothing angry or distrustful in the way she said this. It was promising, even. But now he and Liv were riding in his car to Newton with a disconcerting quiet. It was a hot summer night, and the traffic was surprisingly light.
Normally when driving, Gregory would turn on NPR, but that felt too mundane for the occasion, with Liv sitting erect in the passenger seat in a silky white dress and high-heel sandals. Her face was tan, and she was wearing some type of makeup that sharpened the color of her blue eyes. When she shifted in her seat and smoothed her dress, Gregory glanced over and said what the husband of a woman like Liv should say: “You look beautiful.”
She smiled and tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear, a gesture so unexpected that at first he pulled his head away before realizing she was just being affectionate. Liv didn’t return the compliment, and with good reason. He was still wearing the same gray pants and dress shirt that he’d had on all day. He’d been unable to make any extra effort.
Ever since Mira had come into his life, making him confront his lies, he dreaded returning to the status quo at home, the automated motions of their family life, the disconnect they not only tolerated but had come to accept as normal.
He still loved Liv. How could he not? She had built their whole lives for them. He still vividly remembered the night she took him home to meet her parents—to the rambling Victorian where his family now lived.
He’d been so young and desperate not to fail her or to embarrass himself, but that night, the house on Ashford Street didn’t embody repression but rather possibility.
“Mother! Daddy!” Liv shouted as she charged through the front door with Gregory trailing behind, clutching a five-dollar bouquet.
Liv’s mother, tall and willowy, appeared from around the corner, smoothing her white chef’s apron. She stretched out her hand, and said, “Helen Stimson. How delightful to have you join us, Gregory.” She waited for Liv to approach and gave her daughter a cool peck on the cheek. “Hello, Olivia.”
Liv had said little about her mother on the car ride over except “She’s something. You’ll see.” Already Gregory was beginning to understand. Helen had the kind of small, elegant features that aged well on women. Although her hair was almost the same pale color as Liv’s, Helen’s was longer and wavier, caught in a ponytail with loose strands that suggested the effortlessness of her beauty, even for a woman in her late fifties.
