Lies She Told(13)

“And yet you’re thinking of staying with him.”

“For Vicky.”

“Only Vicky?”

An image of Jake’s face on a recent dinner date flickers into view. He’s laughing. I can always crack him up. For a moment, I think I might start crying again, but I’ve used up my supply of salt water. The prior night has left me with an emotional hangover. There’s nothing left in me except bile. “I don’t know,” I say finally. “Maybe that’s why I’m here.”

Dr. Williams scratches at the side of his goatee and nods for me to continue. I lack the energy. Instead, I unlock the stroller and pull it toward me so that I can be cheered by my baby. She lies inside, button nose and bald head. The sight threatens more dry sobs. She resembles her father.

I direct my attention to my lap. The air conditioner hisses. Children play outside. High-pitched conversations and squeals penetrate the window. I try to pick out words. Identify street sounds. Anything not to feel.

“What do you think would happen if you left?”

“She’d win.”

The doctor opens a palm and gestures to me. “She . . . the other woman?”

“Yes.”

“What would she win?”

“My life.”

“Your life is your husband?”

“My life is my family. Me, my husband, and Vicky.”

“If your husband cheats throughout your marriage, would that still be a good life?”

He’s lobbing questions too fast, a tennis machine on an expert-level setting. I can’t volley this. I raise my hand as if to block another inquiry from flying at my face. “I don’t know.” A weak answer. How pathetic I must look to a man like him. I cover my face with my hands and lament my life. Respected journalism career, beautiful baby, loving husband: it was all a sham with a charlatan at its center. And yet, I want nothing more than to return to the mirage, to stick my finger down my throat and spit up the red pill. But I can’t. He’s been seen. I’ll never forget what Jake is really capable of, who he really is. I’ll never erase his lover’s face.

Something soft brushes against my forearm. I lower my palms, revealing my psychiatrist’s outstretched hand. A tissue waves between his fingers like a surrender flag.

For a moment, I’m offended. I’m not crying. Then I realize that it’s a way for him to get my hands away from my face. “Sorry,” I say.

“No need to be sorry. You’re dealing with a serious betrayal. Feeling upset is natural.”

I twist the tissue with both hands. “Is it natural to want them to just die?”

He cocks his head to his shoulder and offers a noncommittal shrug.

The digital clock on his desk shows three minutes till. Somehow, an hour has passed. Sadness has slowed my mental processes. The questions that had seemed to fire at me were, in all likelihood, offered after minutes of mulling over my thoughts. Dr. Williams follows my eyeline. “We’ll talk again?” His voice rises in a question. Jake’s only made the one appointment.

Despite everything I think about this doctor’s inability to help me, I find myself nodding.

“How about next Friday?” He walks to a closed laptop on his desk and opens it. A calendar is on the screen. “Does this time work?”

“I don’t really have a napping schedule for Vicky.”

“Is there another time that is better? Usually, I recommend once a week, but seeing as how something pretty traumatic has happened, I think it would be best to come a bit more frequently at first.”

I look at my newborn, pupils moving beneath thin eyelids. She sleeps most of the day now, waking up only to feed and briefly play before her next nap. The pediatrician blamed a six-week growth spurt. She’d said it often lasts until two months. “Okay. This is good.”

He hits a few keys on his computer and informs me that I’ll get an e-mail confirmation. I sniffle a thank you. Part of me wishes I could come sooner. How will I stomach my husband in the interim? What will I do with the time in between?





LIZA


I sit alone in David’s office, rereading my last chapter while I wait for him to return from wherever and head out to the Hamptons with me. His only court appearance was a change of venue motion that he’d said would wrap up around two. The time on my laptop reads quarter to four.

At least the space is conducive to editing. It’s quiet. Dark. David keeps the blackout shades lowered, preventing me from amusing myself by peering into the windows of neighboring buildings. His sparse furnishings don’t tempt distraction, either. The roll-arm leather couch is standard fare, the kind decorating a million NYC bachelor pads. His oak desk is devoid of photos or mementos, as are the wooden bookshelves filled with bound legal volumes. Nothing in David’s office hints that there is someone he may be thinking of besides the law and his client. I assume the lack of personalization is to assure visitors that confidences are kept inside these wood-paneled walls, things David won’t even tell his wife.

The doorknob jiggles. I save my document and then e-mail it to myself for good measure. Relying on my hard drive alone is not good enough. I learned that a few years ago after a computer virus hijacked all my processing power to send pornographic spam. By the time the Geek Squad had successfully deleted the malware and returned my machine, I’d lost weeks of work.