The Affair (12 page)

That’s all for now.

’Til next time,

Roger and I had our first appointment with Bonita Loeb yesterday. It did not go well. At first, Roger sat slumped in his chair
like a sullen teenager, arms across his chest. I wasn’t surprised. Seeing a therapist was my idea, not his. And even though
he’s married to one, he has never held the profession in particularly high regard. He says
psychology is not a science but an ideology based purely on theory.

Bonita started with the standard question: “Why are you here today?” I waited to see whether Roger would offer an explanation,
but he stared intently at the floor, as if he were watching a parade of ants move across the tile. I’ve seen him do this before;
he once admitted that he counts floor tiles when he’s in uncomfortable situations. Finally, I said, “We’re here because our
marriage is deteriorating and we have a little boy who seems to be …” I stopped myself. Maybe it was too soon to draw conclusions
about Petey. The truth is, I felt so deeply remorseful about the possibility that I’ve caused Petey’s bed-wetting that I simply
couldn’t bring myself to articulate the situation. I wasn’t ready. Bonita asked Roger whether he thought the marriage was
deteriorating. He shrugged.

So there we were, in Bonita’s lavishly decorated, sunlit office, and Roger wasn’t talking. I’ve confronted this situation
in my own practice. Men can be notoriously recalcitrant, especially if they suspect that the therapist and wife are in cahoots.
I have gone to great lengths to engage the husband, which is probably what Bonita was attempting to do when she playfully
nudged Roger’s leg with the tip of her high-heeled shoe and, later, tugged at his shirt sleeve. (“Talk to me, Roger,” she
said, laughing. “This is your dime. Make the most of it.”)

And it sure did work. Roger sat taller in his chair and turned to face her as he spoke. He became animated as he described
his career as a playwright and the success of his first play. Bonita looked fascinated (although I suspect she wanted him
to describe his feelings, not his résumé). Suddenly the two of them were talking and laughing like old friends, and though
the playful repartee was strategic on her part, I was beginning to feel
left out. Soon I was convinced she was flirting with my husband. And by the end of the session, I decided she reminded me
too much of Diana. I can’t go back to her.

I did, however, make a minuscule step toward repairing my marriage by starting a gratitude journal. I know it sounds New Agey,
but I’ve heard it can work miracles, so I gave it a try. I forced myself to think of one thing about Roger for which I’m grateful.
This is what I came up with:

1. I am grateful that Roger does not beat me.

Eddie and I never did make it to the Roundtree this week. He has a pinched nerve and is flat on his back at home. It kills
me to imagine Patty tending him. Somehow he manages to find time to send daily e-mails from his laptop. Today’s message:

“Can’t believe I’m stuck here in bed. Would rather be with you (in bed). Are you wearing the black bra today?”

I blushed and quickly turned off my monitor. How can I ever hope to work on my marriage with Eddie constantly enticing me
like this?

’Til next time,

Last month the senior partners at the center voted to establish a phone tree so staff could be quickly notified in the event
of an emergency. Today the tree was informally put to the test: At 7:30 I got a call from Filomena
Perez: Diana Pierce was sentenced to nine months in a minimum security women’s prison.

’Til next time,

Eddie’s back is still bothering him and he’s considering surgery. I don’t want to think of him as frail, vulnerable. That’s
not a lover, that’s a husband. I like having him back in the office, but knowing that he’s within fifty feet of my desk makes
it impossible to concentrate. I find myself daydreaming about him while I’m in session with clients and they’re beginning
to notice. Today my client Louis interrupted my reverie by telling me I seemed “distracted.” And now I feel guilty, because
instead of apologizing and admitting he was right, I turned it into a therapeutic moment and asked, detachedly, “Why do you
feel that way?”

Petey has had a few dry days. The day care center isn’t going to eject him—at least not this week.

Decided to give Bonita Loeb a second chance. I can see why people call her work “guerrilla marriage counseling.” Some of her
ideas are so unorthodox I wonder if they’re even ethical. She said she sometimes has couples invite their lovers to therapy.
Can you imagine?
Me, Roger, Alyssa, and Eddie in group therapy? Another technique: Roger and I are supposed to treat each other as if we’re
happily married, even though our relationship is on the verge of collapse. “Imagine you’re actors!” she exhorted. “Go for
an Academy Award! Make it a winning performance!” Roger slumped a little lower in his chair. I felt myself stiffen. Can’t
imagine what she’ll
come up with next week. Maybe she’ll have us dress in costume. Or bring boxing gloves. God only knows.

Saw an article in the paper last week about infidelity. Very amusing. These experts claim to understand why men have affairs—it’s
all evolutionary, they say. Males are programmed to ensure the survival of the species by mating with as many females as possible.
But the social straitjacket of monogamy stops them from dispersing their seed hither and yon. Those married men who get a
little on the side are simply obeying a deeply rooted biological mandate. Or so the theory goes.

Now here’s what has the pundits stumped:
Women who stray.
It just doesn’t make sense, evolutionarily speaking. Mothers are naturally inclined to seek the stability of pairing with
one male. Female infidelity goes against the evolutionary logic.

Give me a break. These (male) researchers should spend less time in the stacks and more time talking with real women. They
got one thing right, though. It’s all about survival. I’d tell them how it feels to be brought back from the dead by another
man’s touch, gaze, mouth. I’d tell them what it’s like to have him trace his finger along my neck and ignite every cell in
my body. A man who listens without arguing or judging. This isn’t about evolution, it’s about
attention.

Last night I lay in bed beside Roger as he relentlessly clicked through the channels, his face pasty and pale in the blue
glare from the Zenith. He’d start with the Christian network on 3, make his way to the shopping channel on 46, then back to
3 again. Again and again and again until I thought I would scream. I rolled over, closed my eyes, and remembered Eddie’s reaction
when I’d told him about Roger’s TV fixation. “If I had you in my bed, I wouldn’t have time to watch television.” He was sitting
on the edge of my desk, legs splayed. He
pulled me against him, and I could feel his arousal. He smiled and pulled me even closer. I knew he wanted to have me there,
in my office, on the desk. We could have. It was late. Even the cleaning ladies had gone for the night. I wanted to. But then
I recalled something Bonita Loeb had said: “Screwing around while you’re in marriage counseling is like smoking during heart
surgery.”

Oops, almost forgot about my gratitude list.

2. I’m grateful that Roger isn’t a crack addict.

’Til next time,

I’m afraid Roger and I did not fulfill Bonita’s homework assignment. For one week we were to behave as if we were happily
married. That meant engaging in respectful conversation, behaving cooperatively, touching affectionately, going out together.
“Does it also mean we’re supposed to have sex?” Roger had asked suspiciously.

“Sure!” Bonita exclaimed, silver hair bobbing, oblivious to the fact that Roger hoped to avoid sex, not invite it. “If the
spirit moves you, why not? Remember, you’re pretending to be happy. And happy couples have sex.”

Who remembers? It’s been so long since Roger and I could be classified as a happily married couple, I can’t recall the last
time our lovemaking was prompted by genuine happiness or mutual attraction. Our motivations were more utilitarian: procreation,
duty. Sometimes we would do it after we’d had too much wine. Or after he’d surfed the porn sites on the Web. Or after
he’d read some survey on the statistical frequency of sex among married couples (Roger hates to feel as if he’s not keeping
apace with the norm).

More often than not, sex would happen after he had exhausted all the TV channels. It never began with a kiss or a stroke,
or even sexy words. He would reluctantly switch off the set, stare at the ceiling, and mumble, “I guess we should have sex.
It’s been a while, huh?”

And I would say, “Yeah. Guess so.” Ten minutes later it was over. Roger would check the TV one more time, just in case there
was something worth watching on ESPN.

So when Bonita Loeb encouraged us to act as if we were happily married, I’m not sure either of us knew what to do. At one
point I greeted Roger at the door with a kiss and a cold beer (always the teacher-pleaser, I felt compelled to do as told).
Roger reached for the beer and kissed me quickly, then headed for Petey’s bedroom. I called after him, “That’s it? Aren’t
you going to ask about my day? Remember our assignment? We’re supposed to be happy!” I know I sounded shrill, whiney. He came
back into the hallway and harshly whispered: “The assignment’s bullshit. I’m no friggin’ actor, and neither are you.”

Damn him. I felt like an ass, having stood there with the beer, ready to kiss his cold lips. But I couldn’t just blow off
the assignment. Why couldn’t he have at least tried? But maybe Bonita’s strategies can’t work for a marriage that’s already
dead. It’s like the time I told a depressed patient to force herself to smile three times a day. The advice was based on a
study that showed that the act of smiling actually tricks the brain into thinking it’s happy. Maybe that’s all it takes for
someone who’s a little grumpy now and then, but my patient
was clinically depressed, suicidal. She needed medication, not some silly trick.

Silly tricks won’t help our marriage, either. Bonita, however, was undeterred. “Try again. Give it another week.” She grasped
our hands in hers. “You two can
do
this.”