Lies She Told(22)

“Three days ago, you hadn’t confronted your husband. Has that changed?”

The answer is humiliating. I examine the pattern on the rug beneath his feet. It’s a busy oriental style with rings of red-and-beige flowers, something that belongs beneath grandma’s dining table. It doesn’t fit with the minimalist decor.

His suede oxfords shift. The hem of his khaki pants hits his ankles, showing a sliver of brown leg. He’s paired a striped white shirt with the slacks today. Fine blue lines trace the curve of his pectorals. His chest rises and falls slowly, as though the good doctor is deliberately smoothing out his breathing.

“I tried,” I say. “I kind of set it up so that I might catch him in the act. But it didn’t work out.”

“He might lie even if you catch him red-handed. People often continue to be untruthful in the face of overwhelming evidence. They’ll lie to themselves, convince themselves that they didn’t do anything really wrong . . .”

He trails off, and for a brief moment, his pupils follow suit. Breaking eye contact isn’t something shrinks really do. I consider that he’s tired of listening to women wailing over their husbands’ affairs. I’m tired of doing it.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about Jake. I don’t even want to look at him. Every time he’s come home this week, I’ve pretended to be tired and gone into my room with Vicky.” I run my hands through my hair. The strands feel slimy. When was the last time I washed and blow-dried? When was my last shower? What must this man think of me? “I can’t. I . . . I’ll talk about anything else.”

“All right, then.” He smiles. “Let’s talk about you. Why do you think confronting him is so difficult?”

The question stings. It suggests that I am doing something abnormal. Does he think accusing a spouse of sleeping around is easy? That it won’t be crushing to hear the man I love admit that he is bored with me, that he wanted something more than I could provide? I try to quench my building anger by looking at my baby. Vicky’s pupils move behind her thin eyelids. There’s a red splotch on one, a broken blood vessel from birth. I’m good at recognizing when a thin vein has burst under the skin. Growing up, my skin was dotted with finger-sized red blotches.

I feel Dr. Williams staring, urging me to speak. The leather couch is tufted. I poke at the button hole nearest my thigh, looking for lint. An agonizing minute passes. Isn’t he supposed to be giving me practical advice to make me feel better?

“Do you think confrontation is difficult for you in general?”

I meet his gaze, letting my smirk convey the simmering fury. Confrontation is not difficult for me. I’d just rather go into it with all the necessary ammunition. “No. I don’t.”

“When you were younger, did you find it easy to speak up for yourself? To talk to your dad?”

“This is when I’m supposed to tell you about my childhood damage, huh?”

“Well, yes, if you think your childhood is a reason that you’re reluctant to talk to your husband.”

“Aren’t childhood patterns the reason we do everything?”

“Sometimes people do things as adults because they’re repeating models with which they’ve become accustomed.” He leans back in his chair with a shrug as if nothing I say will bother him. “We humans are a strange lot. We tend to prefer familiarity and predictability over nearly everything. We repeat what we’ve seen, even when we know it’s a mistake.”

He gives me a weak smile, a peace offering. The look robs me of my rage. I mimic his shrug. “My father was an alcoholic with a temper,” I sigh. “But that’s not Jake.”

“What is Jake?”

I remember him when we’d first started trying for a baby. Doting on me. Always asking if I needed anything, if the hormones were making me sick, fixing a water-and-toast breakfast on the days when the smell of everything made me hurl. Preparing pancakes on the better mornings. I don’t know what Jake is.

A tear tumbles down my cheek. I swat at it like a mosquito has landed on my face and then resume picking the lint from the tufted couch. Again, the white tissue materializes out of nowhere, the dove up the doctor’s sleeve. I hate that he is so prepared for me weeping.

“This is really humiliating, you know? I mean, I don’t even know your first name and I’m confessing all my secrets.”

His sympathetic grimace morphs into surprise. “I apologize. I thought you would have seen it on the website—”

“No. Jake booked you. I only see the T. abbreviation on your plaque.”

“Geez. I’m . . .” He shakes his head, admonishing himself. “Tyler. It’s Tyler.”

The tissue still hangs between his fingers. I take it. “Beth.” I manage a little puff of air out my nostrils. “We have to stop meeting like this, Tyler.”

A cry sounds from the basinet. I peer inside and see Vicky’s dark-blue blinking eyes. Her mouth opens with a kitten’s yowl. She pulls her chin in toward her neck and screws up her face. A sound, air slowly escaping a balloon, comes from the carriage. Someone is pooping. I laugh. “Sounds like time’s up.”

Tyler glances at the clock. Technically, our session can go another fifteen minutes, but I doubt he wants me changing a diaper in his office. “Do you want next Wednesday again? Same time? Wednesdays and Fridays?”