Lies She Told(12)

“But that’s all right.” His mouth stretches into a wide smile. “I can’t imagine it’s easy finding a sitter for only an hour.”

“Thank you.” I feel my face flush. I’m hot, though the air is going, and I’m wearing a cap-sleeve dress, one of my few former work outfits that still appears business appropriate on my swollen chest.

He extends a hand. I shake, starstruck for a moment. He gestures to the love seat behind me.

There’s a sweet, comforting scent in the air, like the smell of old books, though I don’t see any. The couch is a gray leather, worn lighter in the center. That’s where I’m supposed to sit in this medical office that’s been camouflaged as a living room so that I’ll delve into dark secrets.

The doctor sits, back to the window. A blackout shade has been pulled low for privacy, though sunlight breaks in from the sides. Most of the light rains down from bulbs embedded in the ceiling. One beam reflects off a tasteful black-and-white print of a tree. In the photograph, the sun breaks through clouds, creating an angelic glow above the branches.

“It stood out at an art fair. You like it?”

“‘Only God can make a tree,’” I say, quoting the famous Joyce Kilmer poem.

He nods. “I see you made this beautiful child recently . . .”

Cue segue to discussion of postpartum depression. I perch on the edge of the couch. “Um, I think I should clear something up. I’m not here because of Victoria.”

The doctor’s face remains relaxed. “Well, what brings you here today?”

“My husband is having an affair.”

I expect him to raise an eyebrow or squint, do something to show that he now understands why a perfectly sensible person is in his office. Instead, he nods, conveying only that he comprehends the meaning of my words.

“I saw him and a woman at a restaurant. He didn’t see me. They were flirting, sitting really close. He held her hand.”

Dr. Williams’s mouth pinches on one side. “I can understand that being very hurtful.”

The statement is too careful. I want him to side with me, tell me my husband is a jerk and I don’t deserve that kind of treatment. His lack of indignation indicates that he’s reserving judgment. Maybe he wonders whether my husband is fleeing a paranoid, jealous type that stalks his every move.

“I wasn’t spying on him. I’m not like that. It happened by accident. I was out walking the baby and thought I’d surprise him at work. I passed a restaurant near his office, and he was in there with her.”

“Is this the first time you believe he’s been unfaithful?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve thought he was unfaithful before?”

“No. I always thought he was happy.” My voice cracks as I lament my own na?veté. I try to cover it with a fake laugh. “Clearly, though, I’m not that observant.”

He winces at my self-criticism. “Well, it could be that this is his first time. And,” he says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, “here’s the big secret about cheating. Most people who do it aren’t unhappy in their marriage. Usually, they’re unhappy with themselves.”

The statement sounds like a shrink platitude. The third-person equivalent of “it’s not you, it’s me.” I don’t buy it. Jake’s job is intense, but he enjoys it. And he wanted to be a father. I must be doing something, or not doing something, that is driving him away. Or she’s doing something that I’ve never thought of.

“So how are you handling this?”

“I’m here.”

“Does he know that you know?” His expression is blank, nonjudgmental. His big eyes say, You can trust me. I’ve fallen for that before.

“Look. I know I’m supposed to be a feminist and rage against him. Tell him that I will not stand for this. He can leave. I’ll do it all on my own. Take care of the baby, of myself, of our finances.” I gesture to the carriage. “But she’s not even six weeks old, and I had this idea of her life, you know? It involved two parents.”

“Well, she can have two parents whether or not you stay with your spouse.” He tilts his head and gives me a weak smile. “In my line of work, you see plenty of separated couples. As long as both adults agree to be part of their kids’ lives, the children will have both parents.”

Until someone gets a job offer several states away or remarries or has children with someone else. I close my eyes to keep them from rolling. “That wasn’t my experience.”

“Your parents aren’t still together?”

“Like half of America’s.”

“When did they separate?”

A familiar anger wells within me. Questions about my childhood pick at old wounds. I can’t handle them while licking fresh ones. “Does it matter?”

“It can.”

“I’m sorry, I just really didn’t come here to talk about my youth. I’m here to discuss my husband.”

He sits back in the chair and bestows a kind smile, showing he doesn’t take offense to my snippiness. “Of course. What do you want to tell me about him?”

I picture Jake’s clear-blue eyes. The way he rubbed my back last night, playing the supportive spouse after sleeping with another woman. The smell of his freshly washed skin. “We can start with him being a lying psychopathic shit.”