The Affair (17 page)

Diana explained that her only purpose in visiting was to apologize. “I’m an alcoholic,” she said, looking straight at me.
“I’m not making excuses. I tried to wreck my life, and everyone else’s too. I was awful to you. And I’m very, very sorry.”
She looked so earnest it was almost spooky. “I’ve been sober for thirty-two days,” she said.

I stared at her. Was she for real? I waited for the snide remark, and eventually, it came, although in retrospect I believe
she was trying to be helpful, in her own twisted Diana-esque way. “There are twelve-step programs for overeaters, too, you
know,” she said, eyeing my expanded waistline, then gesturing toward the two-pound bag of M&M’s on my desk, already half empty.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I knew about Alyssa. And I guess I’m also sorry I never told you. I mean, I assume
you would have wanted to know.” I could feel my jaws clench. “I actually walked in on them together in his office,” she continued.
“I’d stopped by for a quick hello. They were on the floor.” She stopped and checked my reaction. I turned away. “I told him
he was being a pig.” Diana stood up and straightened her pants. “It was a rare moment of clarity. I knew he was wrong, even
if you had your own thing
going with Eddie.” I knew it. The old Diana had reared her ugly head. It didn’t take long.

“Don’t start with that,” I warned her.

After Diana left, I took the bag of M&M’s and dumped the whole thing in the garbage. Then, on impulse, I looked for Overeaters
Anonymous in the phone book. I jotted down the phone number, then threw that in the trash, too. Before I left, I dug out the
bag of M&M’s. And the phone number.

One last thing: Today we met with Roger’s attorney and learned that Alyssa claims she can prove that she wasn’t the first
student my husband “harassed.” Roger denied having any other involvements, but I’m suspicious. If it turns out this man has
had other affairs, my marriage is over. I swear it.

’Til next time,

Publicly I am a success; my practice is stronger than ever. I’ve been invited to present papers at two different conferences
next year and to moderate a panel discussion at another. From all appearances, I lead a charmed life. A dashing blond husband,
an adorable child, a lovely home. Privately, I am dying inside. I am eating my way through the week, from Kit Kat bars to
dry cocoa mix. My marriage is a farce.

I saw Claire again this week. She shared another of her escapades, and I listened, captivated. (I must say, this client makes
up for all the ones who have nearly put me to sleep.) She had been called in to audit a law firm in Headley (she’s a CPA)
and was working closely
with the firm’s accountant, Dave. “He was married and geeky,” she recalled, “but there was something else there, something
almost animal. I imagined he was like me. You know, quiet on the outside but capable of great passion. I also thought…” She
trailed off.

“Go on,” I told her.

“Well, he seemed lonely. Like me. And I thought maybe I’d be doing him a favor.” After a week on the job, Claire made her
move. “It was easy,” she said. “I told him he smelled good—and he did. Royal Copenhagen, I think. He blushed, and I said it
again, whispered it this time: ‘God, you smell good.’ He looked at me and I just knew. I knew he was interested. I was up
all night, thinking about that look. Pure desire. I need that more than food, I think.”

Apparently, Claire wasted no time in making her next move. The following evening, she and Dave were working overtime, bleary-eyed
from all the number crunching. She ran a finger lightly across his hand and suggested they take a break. Over coffee she told
him, simply, that she was attracted to him. “I thought he was going to have a heart attack. His eyes bugged out and he started
sweating. Then I saw … you know … movement… in his trousers.” They were the only ones left in the office. They had sex in
the conference room.

I knew that Claire belonged to the Sweet Valley Christian Church, one of the most conservative fundamentalist churches in
the city. I wanted her to explain how she reconciled her sexual behavior with her faith. “Don’t you think it’s a sin?” I asked
her.

“Yes, it’s a sin,” she said, leaning forward. “But I’ll tell you what’s a greater sin. When a man won’t love his wife, body
and soul. That’s a sin.” She fell back in her chair. “Yes, I’m a sinner. But I sin out of necessity, like
a starving person stealing food to stay alive. I truly believe that.”

I was going over my notes from that session when I heard a soft rap on the door. It was Eddie. I hadn’t seen or spoken to
him since that icky e-mail about his “crib.” He was extremely polite and seemed to be using all the big words he knew. He
was nervous. He admitted that he thinks about our afternoon at the Roundtree every single day, and he asked—no, begged—me
to be with him again. I felt a mixture of revulsion and searing arousal. “No strings,” he said. “I won’t pester you, I won’t
ask you to leave your family. Just a little mutual pleasure between two consenting adults. Come on, what do you say?”

I told him I needed to think about it. Like Claire, I am so lonely.

’Til next time,

It’s been a hell of a week. On Monday I ran into Eddie’s wife, Patty, at the supermarket. There she was looking like death
with no makeup and an ugly yellow-green bruise on her cheek. She had two kids in tow. No, make that
three
kids. She is pregnant! I don’t know if Eddie’s the father but I wouldn’t put it past him to screw her while they’re separated.
On the other hand, she looks like she’s about five months along, so maybe this happened when he was still living with her.
But Eddie had claimed he’d stopped having sex with Patty soon after we became involved. I don’t know what to think. This has
clearly put a damper on any feelings he may have
stirred in me. It makes me absolutely sick to my stomach to think he may have knocked her up. It also makes me a little sad
to realize that I could have been five months pregnant by now.

I literally cannot remember the last time I had sex. I’m still too angry at Roger to feel amorous, and all our meetings with
the lawyer make me even angrier. Privately, I told his lawyer I had an eyewitness to his affair (Diana) and asked whether
that might weaken Alyssa’s case against Roger. He doesn’t think so.

If her lawyer is crafty enough, it’s possible to prove that she had sex only to placate him, and, above all, he abused his
authority. As for the tapes I’d made of her phone call and messages: I cannot find them anywhere. I thought I’d stashed them
safely away in my dresser drawer, but they’re gone. If I were a more fastidious and organized housekeeper, I’d assume someone
had stolen them, but I’m so damned disorganized it’s quite possible that they’re sitting at the bottom of a heap of crap in
my closet. I must locate those tapes!

I’ve now confided in three people regarding this mess (a.k.a. my life), and the consensus is that I must leave Roger. Betsy,
who has heard only snippets of this saga when I have the energy and nerve to share them, is adamant. “You’ve suffered long
enough,” she told me. “Stop being such a martyr. Make a new life for yourself.” Elaine, a woman in my cardio-spin class, insists
that I’m actually damaging my child by exposing him to my rotten marriage. “What kind of life are you modeling for him?” she
exhorted between gasps for air. “Do you want him to replicate your marriage in his own life?” (A budding family dynamics therapist,
no doubt.)

And then there is my own mother. Over drinks at Pico’s, I poured out the whole sorry tale and she surprised
me by grabbing my hand and saying, “You know your father and I don’t approve of divorce, but if you have no other alternative,
we will always be here for you.” She even offered to help pay my attorney expenses! (The truth is, she never liked Roger anyway
and probably wouldn’t mind if she didn’t have to spend another Thanksgiving with him.)

So now my best friend, my mother, and an objective outsider are all urging me to leave my husband. I’d probably offer the
same advice to any one of them if they were in my position.

But there is one thing I’ve learned as I’ve matured: life isn’t all black-and-white. There’s plenty of gray. In fact, maybe
it’s all gray. I cannot be convinced that my leaving Roger will be better for Petey, and frankly I simply don’t believe those
who say I’d be doing him a favor.

First of all, it’s not at all clear that I’d get full, or even partial, custody. Roger has been the more involved parent since
he works from home, and the kind of lawyer he can afford could easily make the case that Roger’s the better choice for a stable,
loving environment. Secondly, more and more judges in our state are ruling
against
shared custody, pointing to recent studies suggesting that it actually may be detrimental to children to divide their lives
between two different households. So the possibility that I might actually
lose
Petey is so sobering, so very horrifying, that I refuse divorce.

Call me stubborn, crazy, stupid, whatever. The day I see someone like Alyssa playing with
my kid
in the park is the day I shoot myself in the head. And if Betsy or Mom or cardio-spin girl has a problem with that, she can
mind her own damn business.

’Til next time,

It’s a miracle I haven’t been institutionalized by now. I’m so stressed, so miserable, so conflicted—I feel as if I could
spontaneously combust. A quick rundown of my god-awful week:

On Monday, Roger’s attorney informed us that Alyssa had apparently turned up a former student, as well as a secretary at the
Writers Guild, who claim they were coerced into “sexual contact” with Roger. He played dumb during the meeting, then later
that night told me he had some “involvements” with other women several years ago, but wouldn’t offer further details except
to insist that he never had sex. My reaction to all this? I was too fatigued and disgusted to get angry. For the first time
in my marriage I looked at Roger and saw a total stranger. A pathetic, troubled loser.

I told him he had to pack his things and get out. I haven’t heard from him since.

Petey woke up Tuesday morning and asked, “Why isn’t Daddy having breakfast with us?” I said, “Pete, something’s happening
with your Dad and me.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. You’re getting a divorce, aren’t you? Just like Patrick’s
parents and Sabrina’s parents and Emily’s parents. Right?”

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t ready for this. I looked at my little man sitting there, bracing himself for the bad news,
and at that moment all I wanted to do was hold him and rock him. “Well, sweetie, we don’t know about that yet. We’re having
some trouble getting along, and Dad needed some time to be by himself.”

I watched Petey digest this bit of information. “Mommy?”

“Yes, honey?” (I wanted to cry.)

“If you and Dad get a divorce, will you buy me a Power Wheels Jeep? ‘Cause that’s what Patrick’s mom did when she got a divorce.”

On Wednesday, my mother called to say that my father has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. In the meantime, I haven’t been
able to get the picture of Patty—pregnant with their fourth child and looking like a bruised banana—out of my head all week.
I know it is none of my business. After all, I’m the one who told Eddie to go back to his wife. I told him I was sticking
with Roger. I had rebuffed his most recent attempts to reach out to me. Do I have the right to complain? Of course not! But
I just can’t let it go.