The Mother's Promise(46)

“I can do it,” Dagmar said. Dagmar was fresh out of college and a little too keen for Sonja’s liking. Always watching what everyone else was doing, and talking about “best practices.” Sonja was tempted to let her call the Donaldsons, but it wouldn’t look good in front of all these people, and Sonja understood all about keeping up appearances.

“It’s okay,” Sonja said, reaching for the file. “I’ll do it.”

The meeting ended with Theo delivering his mandatory speech about how they did a tough job and they all needed to support each other. Then, one by one, people filed out of the room.

Sonja remained where she was, flicking through the Donaldsons’ file, though her mind was elsewhere. Everything ached. Her legs, her arms, her breasts. Her mind. She’d spent the whole night berating herself. What was wrong with her? Some women would probably love the unpredictability of sex with George. It was spontaneous. Exciting. Creative. Perhaps if she weren’t such a frigid old bore, she would have thought so too.

The truth was, for years, she’d been waiting for George to leave her. Waiting for him to find a younger, fitter model. Someone who could match his libido. In a way it would be a relief, even if the shame would destroy her. The girls she went to school with—the ones who’d whispered about the new Range Rover she’d driven to the last reunion—would delight in the news of her abandonment. Goes to show, they’d say, nudging each other. Money can’t buy a good marriage. (Neither can poverty! Sonja would point out, if they were ever brave enough to say it to her face.) Sonja had a brief longing for her sister, Agnes. Once, she would have been able to discuss this whole thing with her. But she’d shut Agnes out for too long. She had a feeling that ship had sailed.

Besides, for the most part George was a gentleman. That was what she loved the most—the gallantry. The times when he’d hold out her coat for her to slip her arms into. The times that he called her “darling.” The nights spent on the couch watching House of Cards or Breaking Bad. Recently, after they’d watched the film Midnight in Paris, he’d looked at her with something resembling fondness and said, “Remember when we went to Paris? Why don’t we do that again? Just hop on a plane?” They never did hop on a plane, but she took it as evidence that things could have been worse.

“Everything okay?”

Sonja hated herself for jumping when Dagmar appeared in the doorway.

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Do you need the room?”

“No.” Dagmar rolled over a wheelie chair and sat in it. “Actually I just wondered if you were okay. You seemed a bit distracted in the meeting.”

Sonja frowned. “Did I?”

“What happened to your wrist?”

Sonja glanced at her wrist. It was sore, perhaps bruised from last night. She’d worn her wrist brace to cover it up. “Oh, you know … tennis.”

“You’re limping a bit today too,” Dagmar said.

Sonja wanted to tell Dagmar to mind her own business. Instead she said, “Arthritis in my hip. You’ll understand when you’re old.” She smiled.

“I’m probably overstepping,” Dagmar guessed correctly. “But Theo was just saying we need to look out for each other. And I’ve been wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

Dagmar shrugged, raising her eyebrows with an expression that said You tell me.

Sonja continued to look baffled, partly because it was the game, and partly because she was baffled. How old was Dagmar anyway? Twenty-one? Was she actually having this conversation with her?

“Sonja. You’re constantly peppered with small injuries, you’re jumpy and defensive, you’re always distracted…”

“No, I’m not,” she said. Was she? “You think I’m being abused?”

“Are you?”

“No!” Sonja laughed.

It was funny. Dagmar thought she was being abused. But Dagmar just gave her a surprisingly all-knowing look. “You know that if you need someone to talk to, it would stay between us. I can tell you about your options.”

It was too ridiculous. They were the exact words Sonja used with clients who’d been hospitalized with injuries consistent with domestic violence. Sonja herself might have given Dagmar the verbiage when she started with them. Next she’d go into the “Abuse isn’t always clear-cut” part.

“Abuse isn’t always clear-cut, you know,” Dagmar continued. “And there are lots of different kinds. Verbal abuse. Sexual abuse. Physical violence. Any way that someone controls you is abuse.”

Sonja shook her head. But her mind caught on the words “sexual abuse.” She’d recited the spiel so many times but she’d never really thought about it. Sexual abuse. What was that, exactly? Then again, what difference did it make? She wasn’t one of those women who was admitted to the hospital with broken bones and black eyes (well, the broken wrist, but that had been an accident). She was simply submitting to her husband’s advances. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t refuse. She could, any time she wanted.

It wasn’t abuse.

Unfortunately she’d paused for too long. Dagmar looked victorious. “You’re better off alone, Sonja. It might not feel like it now. He might have threatened you, told you he’d hurt you if you tried to leave, but if you want to, you can get away.”