God, is this what trusting You means? A psychiatrist? Is this a test? Like, ‘are you going to trust Me even if I ask you to do something uncomfortable?’
Then, for the third time this afternoon, she reached for the phone to call and cancel the appointment. Nobody she knew saw a psychiatrist. No one . . . except Donna Shannon.
Chuck’s car pulled into the driveway and she took one long last drink from her coffee. By the time he knocked on the door, she stood at the hall closet, checking herself in the full-length mirror inside the closet door. I hope this is how you’re supposed to dress to go see a psychiatrist. She smoothed her sweater against her slacks, grabbed her coat, and slung her purse up to her shoulder.
Chuck eased the door open. “Ready?”
“No, but we can go.” She locked the door and glimpsed Chuck’s car. “Do you care if we take my car?”
“Would you rather drive?”
“It’s not that. It’s silly, but . . . I don’t know . . . I’d rather go in my car.” She fished her keys from her purse and handed them to Chuck.
He unlocked the car and opened her door for her. Her eyes met his as she got in. He thinks I’m a nut case already. Chuck closed her door and then got in.
“Did you have a good afternoon?” he asked.
“I’ve had enough coffee to float a barge.”
“Nerves?”
“Ya think?”
“It won’t be as bad as you think,” he said.
“How many psychiatrists have you seen?”
“Well, none.”
“Then don’t patronize me.”
Dr. Neil Craig met Bobbi with a warm handshake, then he took the stack of papers his receptionist asked her to fill out. Tall and slender with salt and pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses, the kindness in his eyes reminded her of Phil.
“Please,” he said, motioning toward a brown leather armchair. He sat down in a chair across from Bobbi and glanced through her paperwork. “In the interest of full disclosure,” he began, smiling slightly, still flipping pages, “Mrs. Molinsky, I have to tell you I’ve known Phil Shannon since college. He’s an excellent counselor and had he just written a thesis, he would have a master’s degree. We’ve consulted professionally for years, and he feels that your situation has acquired a medical dimension that requires more than just counseling.” He reached back, laying the stack of papers on his desk, then looked Bobbi in the eye. “What can you tell me about what’s going on in your life right now?”
“My husband had an affair this summer,” Bobbi said, trying her best not to look away.
“Did you discover it, or did he confess it?”
“I discovered it.” My whole evening is free again . . . “But he didn’t deny it.”
“Was he forthcoming with the details?”
“As forthcoming as I could stand.” The defendant then kissed the plaintiff’s neck . . .
“Was there any discord in your marriage leading up to the affair?”
“No.” The doctor shifted in his chair. He doesn’t believe me.
“Did he suggest, or do you believe, that you did anything to push him into an affair?”
“No.”
“He came with you today?”
“He insisted.” Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
“So you’ve reconciled?”
“We’re separated.”
“But you’re able to talk.”
“We’ve made progress, yes.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Eighteen years.”
“Do you have children?”
“Two sons, fifteen and eleven.”
“How did they handle the revelation? That is, if they’ve been told.”
“We told them from the beginning. Brad, our older son, was angry and bitter for quite a while, but he’s made peace with his dad. Joel’s biggest concern was whether we were divorcing or not. Once he was sure we intended to work through this, he’s just waited for life to get back to normal. I think, all in all, they’ve handled it very well.”
“Good. That’s good to hear. Do you think your husband is serious about counseling?”
“Probably more than I am.”
“You don’t have much faith in counseling?” he asked, slowing down his rapid-fire questions.
“It’s not that, and Phil’s wonderful, but it’s all I can do to get through a day.”
“No energy, motivation, that kind of thing?”
She nodded. “Donna Shannon suggested it was depression, and recommended that I see you.”
“What do you know about depression?” The gentle sympathy in his voice put Bobbi at ease.
“Not much, I guess.”
“It’s a multi-faceted disease, with biochemical, emotional, behavioral, and cognitive dimensions. In other words, how you feel, act, and think work in conjunction with your brain chemistry, and they are interdependent. They affect each other, and are affected by each of the other dimensions.” He smiled at her. “I have to sound like a doctor every so often.”
“Of course.”
“Can we do a quick screen just to get an overview of how you are right now?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice.” He looked over the rim of his glasses and smiled. “But this will save us about three weeks of therapy.”
“Then by all means, do the screen.” For the first time, she let her back touch the chair.
“It’s a quiz.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his file cabinet. “It’s like one of those magazine quizzes. You choose the statement that best reflects how you’ve felt in, say, the last week or two. The score will give us a quick assessment, and we’ll go from there.” He handed Bobbi the sheet, a clipboard and a pen. “I’m going to step out for just a moment, so I don’t make you uncomfortable.”
Within ten minutes, Bobbi finished the assessment and the doctor returned. She handed him the clipboard and he began to scribble on her paper. Her palms dampened as he tapped the sheet with the end of his pen, scoring her answers.
“All right, this quiz is a pretty reliable indicator of depression and its relative severity. Based on a person’s answers, that severity will fall into one of five categories: typical, that is, no mood disturbance, borderline, moderate, severe, or extreme,” Dr. Craig said, counting off on his fingers. He laid the clipboard across his knees. “Your score falls in the severe range.”
Bobbi’s eyes grew wide. I am a basket case . . . “So what does that mean? What do I do?”
“First of all, let me put you at ease. Depression is common, treatable, and defeatable, but it’s also pernicious and relentless. A diagnosis of depression doesn’t mean you are a weak person, or a bad person. I assume you’re from Phil’s church?”
Bobbi nodded.
“It also doesn’t necessarily mean that God is punishing you, or that this is a sin or faith issue. Notice, I said ‘necessarily.’ We’ll have to get farther into therapy to determine that for sure. Generally, it comes from a cycle of warped thinking that probably began years ago, coupled with some out of balance brain chemistry.”
“Warped? How warped?”
“Not ‘howling at the moon’ warped, just . . . normal warped.” He smiled and adjusted his glasses. “For example, if you thought you deserved to have bad things happen to you, and this affair was more proof, that would be warped.”
Bobbi frowned and nodded.
“You don’t think that, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. I get that one a lot.” His eyes twinkled, and Bobbi understood why Donna liked him so much.
“I mentioned therapy,” the doctor continued. “I’d like to see you next week, then biweekly, then monthly for a while so we can identify some of this warped thinking and redirect it. You don’t seem to be a risk for suicide unless you lied on the assessment.” He paused, looking over his glasses at Bobbi. She shook her head. “So hospitalization isn’t necessary. I’m also going to give yo
u a prescription for an anti-depressant.”
Medication . . . great. Bobbi frowned and sat up straighter in her chair. “Is that necessary? I don’t even like to take aspirin.”
“I understand, but these aren’t habit-forming, and have very few side effects. It’s not going to change your personality, or make you feel or seem drugged. It will just moderate your emotions, kind of make it a fair fight.”
Bobbi didn’t respond.
“I’ve had good results with my patients using them,” Dr. Craig said. Bobbi didn’t budge.
“If you were diabetic, would you take insulin?”
Bobbi let out a sigh. “If you say that’s what I need, then I’ll do it.”
“Thank you. That said, I also have found that sometimes the first choice of medication may not give us the desired results, so don’t get discouraged if it takes a few weeks to get it lined out.”
“I knew there was a catch,” Bobbi muttered.
“Trust me, at least for a few weeks,” he smiled. “Let me ask you this. Do you believe you and your husband will reconcile, genuinely, and not just out of obligation or expectation?”
“I believe Chuck is sorry, and he’s doing everything Phil has advised to rebuild his relationship with Christ, with me, and our sons. He’s made great strides.”
“I detect a but.”
“I’m still afraid and I wrestle with trying to bring my heart and head together. I had an epiphany of sorts yesterday.” Bobbi described for Dr. Craig her time at the lake the day before. “I need to let go and trust God first, and I think trusting Chuck will naturally follow.”
“I was optimistic about your likelihood of responding to therapy and treatment before you told me about that experience, and now I’m even more so. Based on your assessment, you don’t have many of the issues I would expect with infidelity, like guilt, or feeling responsible for the affair. I think you’re engaged in your own treatment and have a good, realistic understanding of the process. What about support from your family and friends?”
“I’m sure they will be there for me.” Bobbi relaxed her shoulders, sensing the end of the session.
“Good. That’s extremely important. Finally, do you work?”
“I teach second grade.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I should.”
“But you don’t?”
“It’s a job. All this with Chuck hit, and teaching has been more of a burden in some ways.”
“Can you take any time off? If it’s at all possible, I’d recommend you take at least a week off.”
“I suppose,” Bobbi said. She didn’t want to draw the attention of her coworkers and students.
“Treat it like a vacation. Don’t start any household projects, or try to catch up on any chores or anything like that. Get out of town for a few days, if you’d like.”
“What about Chuck? Can I see him or not during this week?”
“Do you want to see him?”
If he’s the Chuck who came to the lake yesterday . . . “I think so, yes.”
“Do it on your terms, and don’t try to fix your marriage in this week. I’d also like for you to drop everything else for the time being, clubs, committees . . . everything. And make sure Phil gives you a break on marriage counseling. You don’t need anything else vying for your attention.”
“Then just what am I supposed to do all day?”
“Set one goal each day, and that’s all. The rest of the time, do things you enjoy, or used to enjoy.” Bobbi frowned again. “You don’t think this will work?”
“No, I trust you,” she said. “This is all new. I just need to adjust. I’ll be fine.”
“Yes, you will be.”
Bobbi caught Chuck glancing at her a half dozen times on the drive home, but he never asked what happened in the doctor’s office. She knew it was killing him, though, so she tossed him a cookie. “The doctor wants me to take a week off to kind of regroup.”
“That’s a great idea. You need a break.” He reached for her hand and she let him hold it.
“I’m not sure Mr. Henneke will see it that way.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“Chuck—”
“I know you’re more than capable, but here’s my concern. You are emotionally exhausted and I’m afraid that if he challenges you at all, you’ll drop your request just to keep everybody happy.”
“I need to explain—”
“No, you don’t. Your doctor said you needed a week off. That’s all Henneke needs to know.” He pulled his cell phone off his belt. “What’s his number?”
Bobbi could hear Donna from last night, ‘let Chuck take care of you,’ and she relented. “I’ll get it for you when we get home.”
Chuck went straight to the phone in the study once Bobbi unlocked the door, while she headed to the kitchen for a bottled water.
“You’re all set,” Chuck said, catching up with her in the kitchen. “One week, almost no questions asked. He said Molly Griffin would be your sub, and he gave me her number if you want to talk to her.” He handed her a slip of paper with the phone number. “I’ll be by about seven forty-five to get the boys Monday morning.”
“Thank you.”
He glanced at his watch. “You want me to get you some dinner before I go?”
He was fishing for an invitation to stay, but things were going well, and Bobbi didn’t want to blow that. If he stayed, he wouldn’t resist the impulse to bring up coming home, and when she put him off again, they would end the day angry and frustrated. “I can manage, thanks.”
“You sure? I could fix you something.”
“Since when do you cook?”
He tugged at his waistband. “Since my pants barely fit from eating take-out all the time.”
“Will wonders never cease?” Bobbi shook her head. “I think I’ll pass tonight.”
“But you will eat something.”
“I promise.” Bobbi held her left hand up, and placed her right hand on her heart. “Rita should bring the boys home soon. I’ll eat with them.”
“Speaking of Rita, she asked us over for cake tomorrow evening.”
Bobbi snapped upright in her chair. “I completely forgot her birthday! I’ll have to hit the mall in the morning . . . Wait. Did you say us?”
“I did.” Chuck smiled.
“Wow. Life may return to normal, after all.”
Bobbi heard him say under his breath on his way out, “I can’t wait.”
“No pressure,” Bobbi muttered as she dropped the phone number slip on the stack of mail on the kitchen counter. The envelope Chuck gave her Thursday evening lay beside the stack. She waited until she heard the front door close, then she pulled the papers out and read through them line by line.
Was he bluffing, overplaying, hoping she’d back down? A month ago, two days ago even, she would have said yes without hesitation. But now . . . He wouldn’t have carried the papers around for weeks if he were bluffing. No, he would have brought them in with all the drama he could muster, making sure she understood the sacrifices he was making. Instead, he trusted God, trusted her, and risked everything. How could she do anything less?
Saturday, November 26
Bobbi, Brad, and Joel arrived at Rita’s house moments after Chuck. “Wait here just a minute, guys,” Bobbi said. “I need to talk to your dad before we go in.” She pulled the envelope from between her seat and the armrest and got out of the car.
A verse from her morning devotional from Psalm 119 ran through her mind. ‘I cling to Your testimonies; O Lord, do not put me to shame!’ Your testimonies, Lord, not mine, not Chuck’s, just Yours. Please . . . work this out.
Before Chuck could close his car door, she handed him the envelope. “I want you to have these before we go inside.”
“Thanks, but there was no big rush.” He smiled and took the papers out for a quick glance. His smile melted into puzzlement. “You didn’t sign anything.”
“I know what I said, w
hat I threatened . . .” Her eyes flitted to her own wedding band. “But trust has to start somewhere. Don’t settle with her. She doesn’t deserve your money, or anything else from you.”
“I . . . uh . . . wow, this is a big change.”
“So what’s in the envelope?” Brad asked his brother without taking his eyes off his parents.
“No idea. Mom got up too early for me to dig through it.”
“You’re slipping.”
“I know. It was the turkey and the pie. Looks like good stuff, though.”
“What?”
“In the envelope.” Joel slapped his brother’s shoulder. “You’ll never be a spy if you can’t stay focused.”
“You’re sure about this?” Chuck asked.
Bobbi nodded. “This time, yes. I have peace about it. I actually slept last night. Do you know how long it’s been?”
“About four months, I’d guess.”
“Something like that.”
“Thank you. Bringing the papers back, taking this step.” He tapped the envelope against this car door and she thought he might cry, so she rescued him.
“So what now?” she asked. “You’re still countersuing, right?”
“Yes.” He tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat of his car.
“Well, this should be good,” she said with a resigned sigh. “I can’t wait to see how God works this one out.”
“Me either,” Chuck grinned, then reached in his car again and pulled out a fall flower arrangement.
“What’s that?”
“Birthday present. How should I know what to get your sister?” Bobbi shook her head.
“What?”
“You’ve never brought me flowers for my birthday.”
“I took that into consideration.” He twisted around and produced a second vase of Asiatic lilies from the car. “Will you accept these with my apologies?”
“Now, you’re scaring me,” Bobbi teased, taking the flowers and inhaling deeply. “They smell wonderful. I love lilies. You remembered that?”
His nod became an awkward shake. “Ye . . . no. Lucky guess, but your flowers are bigger, prettier, and they smell better.”
“You did good. Thank you.” She motioned to Brad and Joel to get out of the car. Chuck fell in step beside her, his hand in the small of her back, steadying her as they stepped up on the porch. It felt comfortable, natural, and when he kissed her cheek before ringing Rita’s doorbell, she never protested.