Page 15 of The Therapist
In preparation for the conversation about him visiting the therapist with me, I poured myself a third glass of wine and waited for him to be done with story time, scrolling my phone, admiring a green silk dress priced at over a thousand dollars, thinking about how much better it would look on me than it did on the model. I heard him move to Felix’s room, where he reads to the child about wizards. My son’s room is all in blue with wooden boat decals bobbing on pale blue walls. When I knew story time was over, I poured a large whisky for him.
He was somewhat surprised when he came downstairs but happy enough for the drink, and I was just buzzed enough on the wine to know exactly how to get him to do what I wanted him to do. I need him to come with me to meet Lana. I need the therapist to see exactly what I’m dealing with.
I started by explaining that we were dysfunctional, damaged, and that we were damaging our children. He is attached to the children. I care for the children’s physical needs because that’s what I have to do. But I won’t have to do it for much longer. Everything is falling into place. I have the cookie jar and I have Lana, who is desperate to help me.
I can see a future where I am not here, tied to this stagnant pond of a life.
‘We need to go to therapy together,’ I told him.
‘I don’t need therapy. I have enough shit to deal with. I told you that the factory is closing down. I know it’s going to happen and I’m going to need to look for a new job. I need some support, not you attacking me all the time. And maybe you could start thinking about cutting back on your spending and getting a job.’ He has said this before, many times, but I just ignore him when he mentions the idea of me working. That’s not going to happen.
I didn’t like hearing his refusal to go to therapy with me and I wanted to yell at him for trapping me, for making me ordinary,for giving me this tiny life with nothing to hope for. But shouting at Mike is not as effective as belittling him so I drank down my glass of wine instead and took another approach to get him to do what I wanted him to do.
‘It’s not my fault your company is failing. You’re probably a shitty salesman,’ I said and he lunged towards me, his hand up and ready to strike, and I thought of how perfect it would be to turn up with a real bruise. How much would it hurt? How much damage could he actually do and would he? It felt like the possibility of him unleashing his anger on me was getting closer every day. I could see a time when the gaslighting would not be enough for him, when he would need to take it further.
‘Go on,’ I said softly. ‘I know you want to.’ And then I offered him a sad little smile. ‘And that’s why you need to come with me, Mike. Because you want to hit me, you really, really do.’ It was exciting to watch him wilt, to drop his hand and hang his head. And I knew that I had him exactly where I wanted him.
He doesn’t like being reminded that he is a failure, not when he once thought success was within his reach. I don’t know how he gets up every day and leaves the house, knowing that he is achieving nothing, absolutely nothing. But I also don’t care as long as the money keeps coming in. It’s disturbing to realise that money may not be coming in. But that is why I have the plan.
‘If you care about our children, you will come with me,’ I told him, making sure that he could see how upset I was, tears appearing on cue. I was gratified to watch him pour himself another whisky, throw it back and then pour another. I like to watch him lose control. I like the idea that others think he loses control even more.
‘I’m not coming, leave it,’ he told me.
‘I found your little insurance policy,’ I said, and I watched how he carefully arranged his face.
‘My policy?’
‘Yes. You took it out on me. I don’t earn any money. Why would you need it?’ My tears had dried up quickly because I could see he wasn’t paying attention to them.
‘We both agreed to those policies, Sandy. There’s one on you and one on me. We agreed to them, remember?’
He looked confused and I could see him questioning himself. He was wondering if we actually did agree to them. We had such a brief conversation over them and he signed what I told him to sign because I’m the one who deals with all the finances. He poured another whisky, spilling a few drops because the alcohol was taking effect.
‘I would never have agreed to that,’ I told him, speaking slowly as though he lacked the ability to understand me. ‘Why are you making things up, Mike?’
‘You’re the one making shit up. This is what you do.’ He lifted the glass, drained the drink in one swallow and poured himself a refill. He was close to passing out so I knew I needed to get him to agree quickly.
‘My therapist thinks you might hurt me,’ I said. And that was the truth because she does think that and I believe that as well. The easiest way to maintain a lie is to sprinkle in some truth. I grew up in a house where my mother was hurt and I’m not going to wait for that to happen to me. I can feel him on the edge of doing something all the time and I won’t be that woman. I have my plan and I will not be forced to turn into my mother.
I never said this to him, and I never would. I just needed him to agree to seeing Lana.
‘Why would she think that? That’s ridiculous.’ His face paled and he slumped down onto the dark blue sofa, a colour I don’t love but one that at least hides the messy stains that come with children.
‘Is it, Mike? Is it?’ I watched him rub his face.
‘Did you hear what I said about work?’ he asked, his words slurring. ‘Paul fired two of the office staff today. He’s worried about making rent,’ he said, referring to his boss. When we met, he told me it would not be long until the old man retired and sold him the company. That has never come to pass, and instead of fighting it, he has lazily accepted it, and that makes me so angry– angry for myself and what I imagined would be my life.
‘You don’t care about our marriage,’ I whispered as I sat down on a grubby armchair, one that I would love to get reupholstered. My wine bottle was finished and I didn’t want to open another one just yet. I knew it was time for a retreat, to back off and let him think I was terribly sad, defeated. And dropping my head in my hands, I sat in silence for a minute, letting him watch me.
He didn’t get up from the sofa and come over to comfort me. There was a time when he would have done so but he was woozy with whisky and exhausted from his day. I could see that but I needed him to come with me.
‘Please, Mike,’ I begged, looking up at him again. ‘Please.’
He was quiet for another minute, his gaze moving around our living room, landing on the collection of pictures on a glass and metal console. Our wedding picture is there and we are a beautiful couple: young, perfect, filled with something like hope. I wasn’t showing yet and the lace sheath I chose clung to my curves perfectly.
‘We were happy once, weren’t we?’ I said softly and he sighed.
‘I’ll come if it means you will give me a break, a small goddamn break from all your shit.’ He can be so unkind, so detached. Once, he would have taken me in his arms; once, he would have told me it would all be okay. Once, he promised me the world.
