The Affair (14 page)

’Til next time,

I haven’t wanted to write about Alyssa’s phone call. But I managed to tape the whole thing (my phone is rigged to record since
I occasionally do phone sessions with clients), and this morning I transcribed the tape. It gave me stomach pains to hear
it again.

ALYSSA:
I need to speak to Roger’s wife. Are you his wife?

ME:
Speaking. Who’s this? (I knew exactly who it was. Her voice is high and soft, like one of my baby-sitters.)

ALYSSA:
This is Alyssa.

ME:
Who? (Playing dumb, heart racing.)

ALYSSA:
I’m Alyssa. Roger’s student. You know?
Alyssa
.

ME:
Okay. And … ?

ALYSSA:
Look. I just called … I mean, I called to let you know that this therapy thing isn’t going to work.

ME:
(Silent, waiting.)

ALYSSA:
Are you there? Did you hear me?

ME:
I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.

ALYSSA:
Give me a break. You know Roger and I are together.

ME:
What, exactly, do you want from me?

ALYSSA:
I want you to give up. He’s done with you. So just let him go and get on with his life. (She sounded petulant, like a little
girl. Part of me wanted to send her to her room for a nice long time-out.)

ME:
Give what up?

ALYSSA:
Huh?

ME: YOU
said you want me to give it up. What do you mean?

ALYSSA:
Don’t play games with me. You know what I mean. Roger told me how you dragged him to see that loony lady, that counselor.
What a joke. Roger loves me. And I love him. So just give it up. (Now it hit me. Roger must have broken up with her. She’s
panicking.)

ME:
(Determined to sound detached.) Okay. Anything else you’d like to say before I hang up the phone?

ALYSSA:
Yeah. He told me you’re as stiff as a board in bed. You just lie there, like you’re dead.

ME:
(Silence. I felt like crying.)

ALYSSA:
And he said I’m the best lover he’s ever had. You don’t know what you’re missing. He’s a total hotty. (Pause.) It’s a shame
you couldn’t appreciate that. When you still had him, I mean.

Alyssa has tried to reach me three times since that call. She’s left sick messages for me at work and has even sent me an
e-mail message. In one voice mail message she said, giggling, “Roger told me about the way your
breasts flop to the sides when you’re flat on your back, like he’d need a forklift to get them to stand upright.” In another
message she said something like, “It’s really a pity that you never loved your husband enough to give him what he wanted in
bed. He told me what a prude you are.” And then the e-mail: “Greetings. I’m wearing the black lace lingerie your husband bought
me for my birthday. It’s exactly the kind he got you two years ago except it’s probably a few sizes smaller. Have a great
day!”

I saved all the messages in case I’d need them someday (divorce court? custody hearings?). It kills me to replay them, but
I find myself masochistically going back again and again. It’s bad enough that Roger had an affair with his student, but how
could he talk about me that way? And how could he be attracted to this demented little girl? I played the messages for Roger
but he refused to admit that he is, or was, sleeping with Alyssa. I could tell by the way his lips trembled that he was lying.
All he would say is that she’s a crazy girl with a wild imagination. He even managed to feign concern for me, and suggested
I change my phone number and e-mail account.

That made me lose all control. I threw my Rolodex at him (missed), then pummeled him with my fists, screaming, crying. He
watched me, terrified. At one point he pulled me toward him, as if to hug me, but I fell to the floor, limp, spent. He backed
away from me, slowly and scared, as if trying to elude a cobra. I begged him, “Please, tell me the truth about Alyssa.” Again,
he insisted that she was infatuated and that she was lying.

I played the messages for Betsy. She says I should get a restraining order against Alyssa. I’m not at that point yet, and
anyway, I’m not even sure I have a case. But if
the calls continue, I may have to involve the police. In the meantime, Eddie sent me flowers with a note that said, “I was
a jerk in D.C. Forgive me?”

’Til next time,

This week Bonita had us describe on paper our parents marriages, which we would then exchange at our next session. Here’s
what I wrote:

My parents were deeply in love. Any fool could see that. But having directed all their affection toward each other, there
was almost nothing left over for their children. Except for a rare peck on the top of my head, my parents did not hug or kiss
me, nor did they offer tender words. I felt like an interloper on their honeymoon. Nearly every night I would hear the
crawk-crawking
of the floorboards above me; the whole house seemed to rock with their passion, and I would wrap my pillow around my head
to muffle the sounds. They were so absorbed with one another that once, when I was four years old, they actually left me at
the curb as they obliviously sauntered ahead, arm in arm like two teenagers. I remember standing there, watching them cross
the street, and in a little voice crying out, “Isn’t anybody going to hold my hand?”

So I grew up looking forward to the time when I would have a husband who would give me his undivided attention and adore me
and love me. To be married to someone who neither notices nor
wants me has been a tortuous but also profoundly familiar experience, as if this is my lot in life, to be invisible and unloved.

I was surprised by this assignment at first, since most therapists would prefer to have couples
talking
to each other rather than writing. But given how reticent Roger has been in her office, I guess Bonita figured this would
loosen him up. We’ll see next week whether she’s right.

Alyssa continues to torment me, and it’s gotten to the point that I don’t even pick up the phone anymore. In one message she
listed all the places where she and Roger had had sex, including the rest room at Jim Dandy’s, the supply closet at the Learning
Attic, and the gazebo at Ellis Park. As angry as I am with Roger for bringing this woman into our lives, I have to admit I’m
starting to wonder how far things really went between them. I just can’t picture Roger doing these things—this is a guy who
wouldn’t even kiss me in public, let alone have sex with me in a gazebo!

As for Eddie, he is doing his level best to get back in my life. He knows I collect mermaids and left a tiny ceramic one on
my keyboard Wednesday morning. I’m rapidly losing interest in him. In fact, he is starting to make me a little nauseated.
But a part of me—the part that’s been listening to Alyssa’s messages—wouldn’t mind running into him …

’Til next time,

I’ve gained five pounds since the last time I weighed myself. I can’t seem to stay away from sweets. I started
the day with a Kit Kat bar for breakfast, and last night after everyone was asleep, I plowed through half a chocolate cake.
What’s happening to me?

Betsy called me yesterday, insisting that I start a new life with Petey somewhere far away from here. I’ve often fantasized
about that, but it’s simply not an option. I could never do that to Petey. Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m not doing Petey any favors
by staying with Roger. It’s not good for children to live with miserable parents.

I’ve heard that theory a million times. And you know what? I don’t believe it. I’ve counseled enough children of divorce to
know that most of them want two parents under the same roof. Whether the parents are happily married isn’t important. Unless
Roger starts beating me, I cannot justify walking out on him. And as horrible as things are right now, I have a little hope
left in me yet.

Here’s Roger’s response to Bonita’s question:

DESCRIBE YOUR PARENTS’ MARRIAGE

Withholding. Rejecting. Stable. Funereal.

James and Beatrice Tisdale, upright as wedding cake figurines, and just as plastic, immovable, and silent. Father, buttoned-up
in shades of gray, unsmiling and unyielding. Mother, nervous as a parakeet, a handwringer, bone thin and perpetually fatigued.
Both were miserly with affection, as if there were a limited supply that somehow required storage for some future date, for
emergency use only. Made a bundle in the stock market, but lived like ascetics for most of their lives.

Never saw them kiss, spent most of my childhood convinced my siblings and I had been conceived immaculately. Still convinced.
Realize only
now that there were great cauldrons of anger roiling under the silence. James has carried on an affair with his secretary
for twenty-seven years. Found them on the floor of his workshop when I was fourteen. Didn’t recognize Father at first, had
never seen him so full of life. Never told Mother. Suspect she has always known.

Roger’s straight-arrow, fussy father an adulterer? Big surprise. The old goat once tried to play footsy with me before Roger
and I were married. The Tisdales had taken us out to dinner to celebrate our engagement. The next thing I know, I feel his
stocking feet crawling up my pants leg. I thought it was Roger being playful, until I noticed the wicked glint in my future
father-in-law’s eye—and felt his hot dry hand on my thigh. I left the table and sequestered myself in the rest room, shaking
and gagging. When I got back, he acted as if nothing had happened. I called him at work the next day and demanded that he
never touch me again. He promised he wouldn’t, and except for the occasional hug, he has remained true to his word.

I really pity my mother-in-law, living all those years with a man whose heart belonged to another woman. I can’t imagine what
that must feel like. What am I saying? Of course I can.

I haven’t heard from Alyssa at all this week and now I feel vaguely worried, wondering what she’s cooking up next. I thought
I caught a glimpse of her in the parking garage under my office building, but when I looked again she was gone. Either I imagined
it or the girl is stalking me. I had to resist the urge to check my car for explosives.

Roger has been on a retreat at an artist’s colony in
the mountains, which is wonderful because I cannot stand to be in the same room with him. After Alyssa’s last phone message
I asked him again, point-blank, “Did you have sex with this girl?” Again, he denied it.

’Til next time,