Four Friends

  She’s right, Gerri thought. If she was truly honest with herself, she did know Phil was still interested in having sex with her. He’d made overtures from time to time. Not often, not desperately, not like a man driven. Certainly not like a man about to put those moves on someone else. All she’d had to do was tell him she was too tired or too moody or too menopausal and he’d roll right over, be snoring in sixty seconds. Now and then she took pity on him and gave in, hoping he’d hurry up. She didn’t want to think about what kind of passive, disinterested partner she’d been on those occasions.

  She sighed. “So, a little hormonal help, lubricant and that’s your prescription?”

  “I’m going to examine you, run some tests for STDs just to be safe even though the affair was years ago and you have no symptoms. And, I think you should try to talk to him, see if you can zero in on what’s worked well for you as a couple, what hasn’t worked so well. Even in the closest marriages, it’s hard for couples to discuss their more personal needs. Cravings. It might’ve been quite easy for you to avoid subjects like that, and never even know you were becoming less close.”

  “Every time we start a conversation, it ends in a fight.”

  “That so? Then one of you is dropping the bait. Could be him, trying to get you to take the rap, could be you, letting him know just how angry you are.”

  “Is that the best you can do? Because I already know that.”

  “And you already know that gynecologically, medically, biologically a sex drive is a powerful force in nature. It’ll make your beloved pet turn on you and maul you because he’s picked up the mating scent. It’ll cause animals to fight to the death. It could cause a good man to wander, even if that’s not what he wants to do. Good women, too, for that matter. You owe it to yourself to find out what you’re dealing with.”

  “Look the other way, be understanding and forgiving?”

  “I don’t know Phil. Is he a good man? Or is he just another bastard who cheats whenever he gets the chance? Whenever there’s an opportunity? Was he looking for sex, or was there more to the story?”

  “There’s nothing Phil can say to me that will convince me there was a good reason to have an affair,” Gerri said.

  “I imagine not. Can I tell you one more thing? Orgasms are very healthy. They’re great mood stabilizers, tension relievers. If you can’t find it in yourself to enjoy that aspect of marriage, you can still indulge in orgasms. There’s more than one way to skin that cat.”

  Gerri sighed deeply. “I don’t think I’m going to be cured by an orgasm.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that. But the waning sex drive, the affair, the discomfort of menopause... Gerri, you’re a counselor—see if you can find out what happened to you and your husband.”

  “I always thought he was ethical if nothing else. Moral. I’m not thinking that way right now, and it’s painful. I don’t feel like giving him a break.”

  Joyce grinned. “I didn’t suggest you couldn’t leave a bruise or two. I mean, he was a bad boy, right? Try not to hurt yourself in the process.”

  “Can this marriage be saved?” Gerri said sarcastically.

  “If you walk away, be absolutely sure you’re burying something that was dead.”

  eight

  SYDNEY KALAY WAS filing some charts in the office she shared with two other psychiatrists at Glendale Psychiatric. Sonja walked into the office and the doctor looked up with a smile. “Well, it looks as if you’re feeling much better today,” she said. “Please, have a seat. Give me a moment.”

  Sonja sat in the chair that faced the desk. She noticed that Dr. Kalay had some chimes hanging in the corner of her office, a miniature waterfall on top of the filing cabinet. She made a face, seeing these artifacts that once meant so much to her.

  The upscale private facility was only partially covered by insurance, but George was taking care of the rest. It didn’t bother Sonja that George was stuck with the bill, yet it made her angry that without his benevolence she’d be in some state hospital, sharing a ward with eight other patients, eating food off a metal tray instead of china. Sonja had never made a good living, not even before George. She’d always dabbled in things that interested her, was satisfied to live at home with her parents until she married. She’d immersed herself in those things that fascinated her, soothed her—subjects reputed to bring health, light, peace, serenity and balance to one’s life. Now she felt she’d been tricked, wasted her time.

  Dr. Kalay sat behind the desk, folded her hands atop Sonja’s chart and smiled. “This isn’t a therapy session, Sonja—just a medical evaluation. So, you’re looking good. So much better.”

  “I don’t feel much better,” she said with a shrug. “In fact, I think I feel even worse.”

  “Tell me about that,” the doctor said. “What doesn’t feel better?”

  “I’m crying like an idiot in group sessions,” Sonja said. “I hate crying in front of people. I didn’t do that much crying before...”

  “Crying about?”

  “About failing George, failing at marriage, falling apart, going crazy in front of my friends, finding out I’ve just been deluding myself about everything....”

  “Grieving,” the doctor said. “It’s painful but important work.”

  “And what was I doing before?” Sonja asked.

  “Not grieving,” she answered. “You couldn’t grieve, so you shut down emotionally, mentally, refusing to feel.”

  “So—I did that to myself on purpose?”

  “Of course not. You did it on instinct, because feeling was very painful for you. Your mind and nervous system took over to protect you. If we could look way back, we might find instances in your childhood that were so traumatic, your system perfected a way to take over, keep you safe from feelings that could be dangerous to you. On the other hand,” she said with a shrug, “there might be a DNA pattern in your family tree—a history of depression or something similar—that provided a natural pathway to your mind’s ability to drift into that state.”

  “My aunt committed suicide,” Sonja said, looking down. “I never knew her, though.”

  “A possible link to a family history of depression, but not necessarily confirmed.”

  “My lymph nodes have been swollen,” Sonja said. “Like I’m coming down with something.”

  “I read this in your chart. I don’t think it’s due to illness, Sonja. I’m pretty sure it’s a reaction to your medication and I’d like to ride it out for a while. It might pass. If it doesn’t, we’ll try something else. However, you’re responding to the medication in a very positive way.”

  “I never took drugs before, for anything. Everything has been natural.”

  “The drugs you’re taking are also natural, not synthetic,” the doctor said. “Everything in nature has great power. Homeopathic remedies can be very effective but they can also be lethal, depending on the dose, the combination, the prescriptionist...”

  Sonja waved an impatient hand. “Medical doctors. Always the same drill.”

  “Oh, you might be wrong about that. That’s often a correct assumption, but not always. For example, I visit a Chinese herbalist in San Francisco. She’s been tremendous in helping with my allergies.” She laughed. “She has many remedies—for everything from aging to liver cleansing. She looks like bloody hell herself, which makes one wonder. It can be a leap of faith, with natural herbalists, with physicians.”

  Sonja leaned forward. “Who?” she asked.

  Dr. Kalay shook her head. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t make a referral like that. We’re really here about another matter. A relatively simple matter—clinical depression. By now you’ve learned you’re hardly alone. In fact, I would consider you fortunate—you seem to be responding to medication, despite the lymph nodes. Have you any idea the number of patients who don’t?”

  “I’m catching on,” Sonja said. “There are people in my group sessions who have been hospitalized several times.”

  “Doe
s that worry you?”

  “Of course!” she said. “I don’t want to be a high-risk patient!”

  “I’m not concerned about that,” the doctor said. “Would you like to know why?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “A combination of reasons. You haven’t had a previous breakdown like that in your adult lifetime, unless you’re holding back information that could be pertinent. There’s no pattern. I don’t see any kind of toxic use of natural remedies in the list of herbs, roots and plants you used in your diet. Your break from reality was terrifying and seemed endless to you. But, in the great scheme of things, it was relatively short, thanks to early intervention. And your response to medical treatment was immediate. You’ve been lucky and I’m optimistic. But it’s going to be entirely up to you to continue making progress toward health and to do what’s necessary to avoid relapses.”

  “Then why do I feel so bad? So hopeless?” Sonja asked, her eyes round, her expression beseeching.

  “Because, Sonja, you’re grieving so many things. It will pass but there seems to be a structure to grief.”

  “I know,” she said. “We go over this at least three times a day in group. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance....”

  “But, Sonja, people don’t always go through these stages in order. Many people skip a step or combine stages or even go through them so quickly it appears they haven’t grieved at all—it’s very individual.”

  “I heard that, yes. I still don’t know what I did.”

  “Of course you do. Denial and depression. You don’t like to show anger—the anger was buried. And there was no bargaining—your life was changed in an instant and there was nothing in your imagination that could change it back, nothing you could trade. Add to that—for whatever reason—your depression was complete and dangerous, almost like it had been sitting there, waiting. Fortunately, we have tools now. We can help.”

  “That means I still have steps to go through?” she asked.

  “We don’t know that,” the doctor said. “People actually do skip steps in the progression. Or maybe the progression is just a rough map that isn’t always carved in stone. All I ask of you right now is that you allow yourself, with the help of medication, to feel. And report the feelings in your group sessions. Your group leaders and counselor keep good notes.”

  “I hate that,” Sonja said. “Them writing down things about how I’m doing and not knowing what they say.”

  “They say very encouraging things,” Dr. Kalay said, smiling. “You’re an A-plus student. Just keep moving ahead, you’re doing so well. Not such a hard task, really.”

  Sonja was quiet a long moment. “I always thought I knew exactly what to do, exactly what was right. I studied. I took courses, attended seminars, worked so hard, practiced such discipline—and I didn’t expect big things. I wasn’t looking for miracles, just balance. Just a life that worked, physically and mentally. My husband and my friends, they considered me radical, but I wasn’t. I was just—”

  “A person who feared loss of control,” the doctor inserted. “It’s common for absolutely everyone, not just patients in a psychiatric facility.”

  Suddenly Sonja’s eyes widened dramatically. “Oh, my God, was I trying to control George?”

  “Perhaps,” Dr. Kalay said with a shrug. “Or perhaps you were controlling your own life, of which George has been a significant part. That’s why you go to therapy, Sonja. All you have to do is gain an understanding of your responses and you can choose alternate paths that work better for you.”

  “Wow,” she said, sitting back. She thought for a moment and then said, “You have the chimes, the waterfall. You visit an herbalist. Why?”

  Dr. Kalay smiled. “Comfort. Personal taste.”

  “Is your house filled with stuff like that?”

  “I have a six foot tall waterfall in the courtyard outside my office at home—it’s wonderful for me. I love the sound of cascading water. My husband has a very large statue of the Virgin Mary in his—he’s Mexican, Catholic. We have very few beliefs in common, just the ancient ones that descend from his Aztec roots and my Islamic ancestors, none of which includes waterfalls or Blessed Virgins.”

  “Really,” Sonja said, kind of wonderstruck, impressed that two people from such different worlds could accept each other like that.

  Dr. Kalay leaned forward. “I’m sorry you have so many adjustments to make, so much hard emotional work to do, but I’m very proud of your progress. Just a couple of weeks and look how far you’ve come,” she said, paging through the chart. “You’re eating and sleeping better, responding in group. It’s so much advancement in a short period of time. Even so, I want you to agree to stay longer—at least the full thirty days. I recommend that, but you realize you’re here by your own will and can check out whenever you like. In order to commit you involuntarily, it would require a life-threatening situation and a court order. I’m so glad we didn’t have to act on something as alarming as that.”

  “Thirty days?” she asked weakly, though she’d known from the beginning it could come to that. “I miss my house. My bed.”

  “I know,” the doctor said. “I would, too.”

  “And it’s very expensive here, isn’t it? I talk to some of the others—some patients have been in other, less fancy hospitals. It’s hard to get in here, hard to afford.”

  “Correct,” the doctor said. “Your husband has good insurance and in addition has guaranteed payment for your stay, no matter how long. You’re very fortunate.”

  “I suppose,” she said. “That’s kind of hard to swallow.”

  “Is it?” Dr. Kalay asked.

  “Of course,” Sonja said. “I really don’t like George spending a lot of money on something like this.”

  “Are you concerned about his finances?”

  “Concerned?” she asked with a short laugh. “Oh, God, not at all. George is actually rich, though you’d never know it. He lives pretty cheaply, but that’s because he’s hooked on investing. He has a lot more fun looking at a portfolio balance than spending money on something expensive, extravagant or entertaining. It’s just that if this is good for me, something I need, I’d like to be able to afford it myself—and I can’t.”

  Dr. Kalay folded her hands and smiled. “It’s beyond most of us, Sonja. It would be very difficult for me, as well. But apparently it’s not a burden for George. I don’t think you have to take on that worry.”

  Sonja let out a laugh. “Oh, believe me, I’m not. I’m just sorry I’m not successful. I never learned how to be successful. That comes in handy, especially in emergencies.”

  “Absolutely,” Dr. Kalay said. “But then, there are many definitions of success.”

  “Yeah, I get that. But George’s is to throw money at his problems—and right now I’m the problem he’s trying to make go away. He’s just a sleazy, passive-aggressive cocksucker in a business suit and I hate him.”

  Dr. Kalay was shocked enough that it showed in her posture, her startled expression. But then the expression melted into a grin. Not the usual soft, patient, sensitive smile, but a large grin that showed her beautiful teeth. “Well, now,” she said. “Perhaps we won’t skip the anger stage, after all.”

  * * *

  A few minor changes brought some stability to the Gilbert home. Phil was living closer and thus spending more time around the house. Jessie was grounded, so there was no panic about whether she’d be getting into mischief. Sonja was in the hospital and without Phil to wake the kids in the morning, Gerri was going into her office a little later. Even though it pushed Andy for time in the morning, they moved their power walk to six-thirty rather than six. Thirty minutes of extra sleep felt like all the difference.

  “I hate to admit this,” Gerri told Andy, “but I think the hormones are helping. I’m on the lowest dose, but rather than a hot flash an hour, it’s more like two a day.”

  “And you feel more stable mood-wise?”

  “I haven’t opene
d fire on anyone in a couple of weeks,” she said with a laugh. “Seriously, that might not be the hormones. I have Phil right down the street, much more available, and the kids are mysteriously well behaved. Besides, if you ask Phil, I’ve always been a loose cannon, mood-wise. He’s been on something for twenty-five years, I swear to God. I mean, what’s he got to be so pleasant about? Huh?”

  “He’s spending more time around the house?” Andy asked.

  “Sort of. If I have to work late, he can usually get to the house by six or seven and when he’s tied up, I’m there. He comes over a lot of evenings just to use the office rather than being stuck with his laptop. He comes for dinner sometimes, sometimes he brings food, gets in a little time with the kids. He can stay longer since he doesn’t have to drive back to the city. And we haven’t been fighting much. It’s almost like living together, but not living together.”

  “How’s the counseling going?” Andy asked.

  “Top secret,” Gerri said. “I quit. We can’t let Phil know—he’ll think he can quit. I’m not letting him off that easy.”

  “Why’d you quit?” Andy asked, surprised.

  “She wouldn’t stick to the issues,” Gerri said with a shrug. “I needed to talk about my relationship with Phil, how things got derailed, and she wanted to go back to my childhood, my parents’ type of discipline, earlier relationships—all kinds of stuff that don’t apply.”

  “Are you sure they don’t?”

  “Well, maybe there’s some stuff in there that could be looked at, but I’ve had a lot of counseling before now. It’s a job requirement. Believe me, I’m all caught up on childhood traumas, grief and anger, etcetera. I have a husband problem. At least I had one seven years ago, whether I knew it or not. Things are almost normal at our house these days. I’m thinking of going out on a limb and asking him if he’d like to have an evening out, away from the house and kids. See if we can talk about the future without fighting.”