If You Only Knew(45)

My phone dings with a text. Jenny.

She’s been collateral damage in this mess. For the first time in my life, it’s been hard to talk to my sister. She came over the other afternoon to play with the girls and visit, though we can’t talk about It with the kids around. I know she wants to help, but what can she do? I can barely look her in the eye, because then I’ll see all the love she has for me there, and I’ll lose it.

Tonight, however, she’s babysitting, because Adam and I are going to a marriage counselor.

It was one of my ultimatums. That, and me sleeping in the guest room. The girls wanted to know why, so I told them that I had a little cold, which was why my eyes have been wet. They’ve already adapted, running into my room in the morning and climbing in bed with me, smelling of sweat and, in Charlotte’s case, faintly of pee, since she still has to wear a diaper at night. Adam appears in the doorway, looking rested (how dare he sleep so damn well?) and hopeful and slightly sad, making me wonder if he practices that look in the mirror. The girls leap and bounce and beg to be held by their daddy. Whose tongue has been in places I don’t want to think about.

And so, my list of ultimatums, trying to prove to myself that Rachel Is a Strong Woman.

Once, I thought I knew exactly what I’d do in the ugly face of infidelity. It was so clear back then. If I couldn’t have what my parents had, then I’d rather be single. Divorced. I knew what I deserved, and I wouldn’t be one of those pathetic women who settled, who ate or drank or starved herself in her misery, who carries anger like a switchblade, always ready to slice into someone else’s happiness.

But I guess I don’t know anything anymore.

* * *

Jenny comes over at 6:30 p.m. “Hello, my little giraffe babies!” she calls, and the girls wriggle and squeal in delight, wrapping themselves around her.

“Auntie, I’m not a giraffe,” Grace says.

“Are you sure?” Jenny asks.

“I am! I’m a giraffe!” Charlotte says, detaching from Jenny’s leg and running around the house, whinnying. Rose follows, and Jenny picks Grace up and snuggles her.

Then Adam comes downstairs. “Hey, Jen,” he says, and my sister’s face hardens.

He ignores that. “Babe, you ready to go?”

As if it’s a date. As if we’re going to dinner and a movie. As if he’s done nothing wrong.

“See you later,” I say to my sister. “Bye, girls! I love you!”

I used to say we love you, but Adam’s on his own tonight. He doesn’t get included.

“Love you, princesses!” he says, then holds the door for me.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we’re in the office of Laney Shields, who has a bunch of letters after her name. I found her by Googling “marriage counselors.” She was covered by our insurance, and on her website, certain reassuring words leaped out: brief, focused, solutions. And, God, I want a solution.

Laney’s office is a building in the backyard of her house—a tiny little playhouse, almost, with three couches and a chair, bookcases and end tables. Lots of boxes of tissues, the good kind with lotion. That strikes me as ominous.

“Come in, come in,” she says warmly. I sit on the flowered couch, and to my annoyance, Adam sits next to me, like he’s already trying to show what a loving husband he is.

Laney takes the chair across from us. She’s in her fifties with flyaway graying hair and a pleasant face. Wonderful crow’s-feet.

“A few things before we start,” she says. “You can only come here for scheduled appointments—if you need to reach me urgently, you must call. If I see you on the property without an appointment, the police will be called.”

“Jesus,” Adam says.

“Well, I had one client appear with a gun several years ago,” she says calmly. “There are surveillance cameras all over the property, as well as a state-of-the-art alarm system. I’m sure you’re not the types, but it’s my policy to inform clients up front.”

“Understandable,” I murmur.

“Also,” she says, “this building is soundproof, because emotions can run high. You don’t have to worry about crying or yelling—no one will hear you outside of these walls. However, I have a panic button right here—” she points to the underside of the arm of her chair “—in case things turn physical, and the police will be here in under two minutes.”

I love her. She’s prepared. And clearly, we’re not the worst couple she’s ever had. We’re not going to need the police! We’re probably pretty run-of-the-mill for her. Just a cheating husband and his weepy wife. I bet she can fix us in two sessions.

I feel oddly cheered. Adam, on the other hand, is already uncomfortable, shifting next to me. I inch away. He should’ve gotten his own couch. He’s not wanted here.

“Things tend to move faster if you’re both honest,” she continues. “It can be very painful, but think of it as lancing a boil. Unless you get to the heart of the infection, it won’t clear up. It may be hard to hear what the other says, but that’s what you’re here for.”

I liked her more when she was talking about the panic button. Painful boils aren’t nearly as fun.

“So tell me what brings you here,” Laney says.

Adam and I look at each other. He says nothing. Ass-hat. That’s one of Jenny’s favorite words, and it’s becoming one of mine, too. I wait him out, staring steadily, wondering if he can feel the poison seeping out of my heart.