The Bishop’s Wife (Linda Wallheim Mystery, #1)(47)

His hands flew all over the place. “She has had such a hard life and I want to make her feel how happy I am that she got through all of it, that she made it to me. I want to make her feel wonderful. I want her to wake up in the morning and stop thinking about all the mistakes she made, and think instead of all the possibilities.” He captured his hands, and then his head started bobbing. “I—I want her to think about how much better a place the world is because she’s in it. I want her to see how happy she makes me and to believe that matters.”

I stared at him, shrinking back in Kurt’s chair. I could feel tears rising in my eyes. All he wanted was to do what I thought all men should want to do for their wives, and which few managed to do, even once in a while. He wanted to counteract the message so many women heard “the world” telling them, that they were worthless, and that they should just be content to be no more than vessels to please men.

“What’s the thing that is causing Gwen the most pain right now?” I asked.

His hands were free again, and made wide, sweeping ovals. “I think sometimes that it feels to her like her whole life is weighing on her, like everything that has happened to her, and everything she has done wrong … like it’s all happening right now.”

“That sounds like depression. Or possibly anxiety,” I said. “Is she seeing a therapist?”

“She was seeing a therapist before, but not now. And yes, she is still on medication. But sometimes the medication isn’t enough. Sometimes—she feels like this is all her own fault, and she doesn’t even deserve to have medication. Or me. Or happiness. So she pushes it away.”

“I see,” I said, not sure I saw at all. Was this a clinical matter, about Gwen’s mental health? Or was he asking me for tools to manage his own relationship? I wasn’t an expert on medications for depression and I was sure Kurt wouldn’t appreciate me dispensing medical advice in any case. He sent members of the ward to doctors if he sensed they needed that kind of care. So I decided I would deal with relationship issues. That was what I was good at. “Have you tried writing her notes telling her how much you love her? Sometimes writing something down makes it feel more real, more permanent than just saying it. And then she would have it to look at even when you’re not there.”

His face lit up. I had never seen anyone look at me like that before, certainly not my children, not even Kurt. “Thank you! I’ll do that. Write her letters.” He nodded to himself, as if etching these words into his head. “Anything else?”

I felt a sense of power. I knew the downsides to being the bishop, but now I began to understand the upsides, too. Not only did people look at you like you were an angel of God, but you could actually help them to be happy. So long as you didn’t give them really stupid advice. How well did I know Gwen Ferris, anyway? How much did I know about what was really going on between her and her husband? I could give general advice, though. And I knew that when I felt overwhelmed, sometimes Kurt putting a hand on my back or shoulder did wonders.

“Touch her,” I said. “Not just kisses, and not necessarily sexually. But just casually, remind her that you are there. Touch the back of her neck or her back. Touch her legs while she is sitting next to you. Reassure her. Remind her that you love her. Make her feel surrounded by love, protected by it.”

“Sometimes she doesn’t like to be touched,” said Brad. “She doesn’t like to be surprised. She jumps.”

What was this? It shouldn’t be surprising to be touched by your husband of five years. “Maybe you should just make sure she knows it’s coming,” I said. “Let her come to expect it.” As soon as I said it, I wondered if I was off the mark. Did she have personal space issues? Or was there something darker going on here?

“Okay. I’ll do that. Thank you so much. And maybe I can talk to you again later?” he asked.

“Sure. If you’d like to.” Although I was thinking that I would very much like to talk to Gwen Ferris again myself. I needed to know if I had given her husband the worst possible advice or not. I needed to know more about everything here.

Brad Ferris stood up and moved to the door.

I got out of Kurt’s chair more slowly.

I had to wait until Kurt got home and we’d had dinner to tell him what had happened with Brad Ferris and what advice I had given him.

“Was I completely wrong?”

“No,” said Kurt. “But—”

“But what?”

He just shook his head. “I don’t know. They haven’t told me everything yet. I can see how they are with each other. I can see they are good for each other. And you know about how they’ve wanted to have children?”

I nodded.

“But there’s something else there that they’re not ready to talk about yet.”

“You could send them to a therapist, you know.” Why hadn’t he already done that?

“I know, but I don’t think that’s the right thing in this case. I’ve prayed and prayed about it, and I think that for whatever reason, they need me personally to sit and listen to them.”

I nodded again and hoped he and I had both done the right things by the Ferrises. There were times when you hoped that God really did use you as His tool to help others, because you were pretty sure you couldn’t do it yourself.