What is Love? (8 page)

“Water?” Dr. Morris
poured a glass for her. “Since Mr. Horvath isn’t here yet, shall we start with
you? I’d like to discuss your goals for these counseling sessions.”

“Of course, I want
to save my marriage. Why else would I be here?”

“Yes, yes. Let’s
discuss you. Are you happy?”

“Of course.” Her
heart raced. “I mean, not about the problem in my marriage, naturally.”

“Please tell me
about that.”

After listening to a
long description of Ellen’s childhood, her marriage and her children, Dr.
Morris smiled, his face soft with sympathy. “What do you want to change in your
marriage?”

“I want him to
want
to stay.” Ellen gave him a wry smile. “That’s where you come in.”

“Don’t you have
needs that aren’t being met?” he asked, ignoring her cue.

“Oh no, I’m very
happy. Completely happy, except for that.”

“What about anger?
Do you have any feelings of anger?”

Ellen stared at the
ceiling. There was a long silence. “Yes,” she sighed. “There are times when I
get upset at him. I get angry when he talks of leaving. I can’t help it. It’s
natural, I guess.”

“Natural? Elaborate
on natural.” He continued taking notes.

“Natural to be
angry, well, I mean, given the circumstances.”

“Angry about what?”
Dr. Morris pressed further, his head looking down as he wrote.

“About him leaving
me, of course!” Ellen blurted.
Was he stupid?
“What women wouldn’t be
angry about her husband walking out on her? Abandoning her. Of course I’m
angry!” Ellen slammed the water glass onto the table. “It’s her. The little
minx, I hate her. She’s fooled him, tricked him into thinking things.” She
could feel her voice getting loud and shrill. She closed her eyes. A calm took
over as she took a deep breath. Ellen smiled at Dr. Morris and said in a serene
voice, “The problem isn’t with me, don’t you see? I’m not the problem.
He’s
the problem.” She smoothed her hair and continued. “He needs to see things
clearly
.”

“See what, exactly?”
Dr. Morris asked.

“See what he has.
See what he’d be giving up. What he’d lose.” Ellen smiled again. “I need you to
help me by telling him this. Dr. Morris, you can make him see.”

“I can’t tell him
what to do,” Dr. Morris said in a bristled tone. “You know that.”

“Yes, but you could
influence
him,” Ellen said in her best persuasive voice. “Isn’t it your job to show him
how he’s confused, how he’s not thinking clearly—what a mistake he’s making.”
This
is, after all, what we are paying an inordinate sum of money for.

Dr. Morris set his
pad and pen down on the mirrored table between them. He leaned toward Ellen.
“Mrs. Horvath, you’re a very strong woman. You must be aware that for this
marriage to work, it needs to be mutual. No one should be coerced. This should
be a natural, loving state—perhaps with pain, perhaps with anger, perhaps with
forgiveness—but never forced.”

Ellen looked away.
“He’s being a child. He’s completely and utterly selfish. He can’t see right
from wrong.” Ellen crossed her arms. “I swear that if I didn’t tell him what to
do on a regular basis, he wouldn’t have any idea what to do.” Ellen sat in
silence and stared straight at Dr. Morris. “You see, you have no idea how much
he needs me.”

Dr. Morris picked up
his pad and pen again. “What do you do for him?”

“Everything!” Ellen
shrieked. “I do everything. I plan everything. I find things, I buy things,
tell him what to wear. Why, he’d be completely lost without me.”

“What about love,
does he have love?”

“Love? Of course he
has love,” Ellen blurted aloud, her voice unexpectedly harsh. She struggled to
restrain her tone. “No one could love him as much as I do. I’ve given him the
best years of my life, all the years.” Her voice grew shrill. “I’ve sacrificed
for him. I’ve forgiven him, countless times. I lost track of it all, there have
been so many times.”

“For what?” Dr.
Morris interrupted.

“Sorry?” Ellen
asked, smoothing her hair again to regain composure.

“You said you
forgave him—for what? Please elaborate.”

“The affairs.
Countless affairs.”

“So this isn’t the
first?”

“Good heavens. No.”
Ellen looked away. “I’ve become used to it. The other girls, well, they were
just that. Girls. Stupid girls to have sex with. He’s never loved any of them.
He has a pathetic physical need, a deviant sort of need that they fulfill. He
has
 …
well, problems in that
area. It’s just sex—that’s all it ever is. Everything is all, well
 …”
Ellen pulled hard on the tie of
her blouse, “all good between us.”

“Did these affairs
hurt you?” Dr. Morris asked in a hushed tone.

Ellen stopped
fidgeting and looked away. She stared out the window, toward the overcast sky.
After a long pause she sighed. “At first
 …
yes, at first I was very hurt. I cried a lot. I wanted to know
everything. What she looked like, what she had that I didn’t have. What they
did
 …”
Ellen shook her head. “I
drove myself crazy. But he stayed. He always stayed.”

“And you forgave
him?”

“Yes. I came to
realize it was fine. They were willing to do things I had no interest in doing.
I simply put it out of my mind.” Ellen folded her arms across her chest. “He is
my husband and he doesn’t love any of them. It is just sex. I’m Mrs. Jonathan
Horvath. Those trampy little girls, that’s not real love. It’s a temporary
lustful craving, nothing more.”

“And now
 …
what is it now?”

“Just sex. I told
you already. He thinks he loves her. He doesn’t. With enough time, he will get
bored, just like always, and poof—she’ll be over, forgotten like yesterday’s
news.” Ellen smiled triumphantly. “And it will be as it always was. I’ve seen
this countless times before—”

The buzzer. “Dr.
Morris,” a voice squelched from the desk. “Mr. Horvath is here.”

“Tell him to wait,”
he called out to the phone, then looked at Ellen. “Shall we continue?”

“I honestly see no
need.” She stood and smoothed her skirt, picking up her purse. “You can see I’m
not the problem. Please
 …
please
fix my husband. Fix my marriage.” Ellen glanced at Dr. Morris. Anxiety suddenly
overcame her. “Tell him. Show him what’s important. Make him see what he’s
doing.” Ellen grabbed his arm. “I need you to help. I need my marriage to go
on.” Her heart was pounding in her head. “I can’t let him leave. I just can’t.”

“Why can’t you?” he
asked.

“What a stupid
question!” Ellen dropped his arm, pulled back and closed her eyes. What she
couldn’t admit was her deep fear of failure. Jonathan leaving her would confirm
to everyone her colossal failure in both her marriage and her rise in society.
She brushed her trembling hand over her bangs. “I’m sorry,” she said in a
calmer voice. “I mean, of course everyone wants their marriage to work. I must
be his wife. It’s funny really, these young girls will do
anything
to
get a man like my husband, and I’m wrong for trying to keep him. Why is that?
Why am I so wrong?”

Dr. Morrow was about
to speak.

“Why should I just
accept this and walk away? Why shouldn’t I fight for what I believe in? Wouldn’t
you fight for what is most important to you? Well, of course, you would. If
someone was stealing your children, you wouldn’t just lie down and hand them
over to some sniveling, money-grabbing little tramp. I won’t either. She’s not
getting anything of mine. Not in this lifetime.”

Ellen’s car crept up
to the storefront sheltered by a faded awning, the address, 1204 Rare Coins,
barely visible beneath a permanent layer of dirt.
Clever
, she thought,
using a coin shop in a remote area as a cover so women in her situation
wouldn’t be seen entering a private investigator’s office. The trip finding
this place was difficult since she was not used to driving—she couldn’t
remember the last time she actually drove herself anywhere.

She stepped onto the
crack-filled sidewalk, noticing the barred windows and graffiti, evident in
spite of the lack of light. The groups of men smoking in front of the doorways
were grubby and seemed to acknowledge she did not belong here. She pressed her
purse close and hurried into the office, ignoring her impulse to drive away and
forget the whole idea. After all, this was Patty’s doing, her big master
plan—getting a bunch of dirt on Samantha. Ellen did have to admit she was
morbidly curious. And anything that she could use to destroy that little twit
was okay by Ellen.

A cluster of bells
jingled as she pushed open the heavy, reinforced door. Ellen surveyed the room.
An old carpet, clearly never steam cleaned in its life, a long display case
holding an assortment of old coins that were well-hidden beneath glass etched
with scratches, a couple of mismatched chairs, faux wood paneling and, just to
add to the odd clash, an antique Chippendale desk in desperate need of
refinishing.

“Be right with you,”
a voice called out from a back office.

Ellen looked to sit,
but on seeing the stains on the chairs remained standing.

A tall, unshaven man
appeared, wiping his mouth and chin as he read through a file. “Hi, I’m
Morty—you Mrs. Jonathan Horvath?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs.
Horvath.”

Confusion stretched
across his face as he studied the file. “Your name’s Jonathan?”

“No, that’s my
husband’s name.”
Was this man a complete idiot?

“What’s yours
 …
Joe?” he quipped, laughing at his
cleverness and shaking his head.

“Ellen,” she
answered, ignoring his bad manners.
Heaven help me!
She wanted to turn
and dash out of this rank office, but curiosity held her. Curiosity mixed with
desperation.

“Well, Ellen—”

“Mrs. Horvath,
please.”

“Well, I looked into
this a bit. There’s not much info on her, so I’ll need more money to do some
legwork. You know, visit the town she grew up in, snoop around, that sorta
stuff.”

“How much more?”
Ellen stared at the rumpled man standing before her. His shirt looked like he
found it scrunched in a laundry bag. His pants fit horribly, cinched at the
waist with a well-worn belt, its notches moving progressively forward to
accommodate the increasing girth.

Morty shrugged his
narrow shoulders. “Depends on how long I search
 …
how much time it takes. Let’s say no more than twenty K.”

“Twenty thousand
dollars! That much?” Ellen studied him, trying to comprehend how he could
possibly be worth that sum. She couldn’t imagine anyone paying him that
much—except Charlene would have, and it worked for her, didn’t it? Patty
assured her this had worked.

“Mrs. Horvath. You
want this on the QT, right? That takes more time. I can’t just go out and ask
around. I need to blend in, you know, warm up to people, otherwise the whole
thing could be blown.”

“Well, that is a lot
of money, just for one—”

“Listen, tell you
what, ten K minimum, if I find anything out sooner, I won’t charge you anymore.
I’m good. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Yes, Patty heard
you were
 …”
Ellen leaned close
and whispered, “discreet and reliable.”

“You can count on
it.” Morty nodded with a wink.

Ellen opened her
purse and handed him an envelope. “Here is her information, and my husband’s,
and your advance—two thousand dollars, right?” Ellen was about to leave, but
instead stood staring at him. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea, maybe we
could—”

“Listen doll, er,
Mrs. Horvath, you ain’t the first wife to do this, in fact, should be a
requirement of all divorces. You need to know who you’re up against—only way
for a fair fight. But if you’re not comfortable, we could—”

“No,” Ellen said,
remembering her desperation. “No, I need you to find something.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs.
Horvath. We’ll get ‘em.”

“Yes.” Ellen smiled,
turning toward the door. “I hope so.”

She pulled the door
open, enjoying the brass bells as they chimed. As it shut behind her, she took
a deep breath, basking in renewed optimism. He would find something to save her
marriage, to bring Jonathan to his senses and then order could return to her
life.

***

Ellen sat watching
Dr. Morris, carefully reviewing his notes in the file.

“Well,” she
demanded. “How is he? It’s been seven weeks. How are we?”

He took off his
glasses and rested them on his notebook. He appeared much too young for reading
glasses. “I would say your husband shows remarkable progress.”

“So, are we good?”

“In my opinion, yes,
you are. I still think there are areas that we need to work on regarding your
own sense of responsibility in the relationship. I need more sessions with you
to discuss your views on where we are and what steps are needed.”

“I don’t see the
point. I’m fine. He’s the one we need to be focused on.”

“Do you find
yourself drawn to people with problems that need fixing?”

“I’m not drawn to
them, I’m surrounded by them.” Ellen sat back and folded her arms across her
chest. “I’ve always been, they seem drawn to me—but my concern is with
Jonathan.”

“Do these problems
keep you from focusing on your own responsibilities?”

“My responsibility
is with my husband and family.”

“Could you be using
your obsession with your husband to avoid your own feelings of emptiness?”

“My obsession?”
Ellen jumped to her feet. “For heaven’s sake, this is a forty-year marriage
we’re talking about. You have barely been alive for forty years. Obsession!”
Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “I do not have problems. I am happy. He is the one who
needs fixing.”

“Mrs. Horvath,
please sit.”

Ellen remained
standing.

Dr. Morris stood,
facing her, then leaned against the back of his desk. “Sometimes we can use our
relationship as a type of drug to avoid experiencing what we would feel if we
were alone. The more painful the interaction with someone, the greater the
distraction that person provides us—”

“A distraction? You
call my concern about my husband a distraction? Unbelievable.” Ellen turned to
leave. She held the knob then turned toward Dr. Morris again. “One minute you
say he’s fine and now you say that I’m screwed up? Don’t pin this one on me.
I’m fine.”

“That’s good to
hear. Please sit down, Mrs. Horvath. We still have twenty minutes. I’d like to
discuss your relationship with Jonathan.” Dr. Morris extended his hand toward
the sofa.

Ellen sat on the
edge of the sofa, uncommitted to staying. “I do want to understand him.”

He returned to his
chair. “Does being with Jonathan make you feel better? More loved?”

“Yes. I love him so
much, and I know that he loves me.”

“How
do
you
know?”

“You feel it. By the
things that are said and unsaid. You just know.”

“Did you struggle to
win your parents’ love?”

“Oh, so now it’s my
parents’ fault?” Ellen leaned back in her seat. “I didn’t have parents,
remember? That should be there in your notes somewhere. I guess we can’t blame
them.”

“What happened?”

Ellen shifted in her
seat. “Old news. I’ve put it all behind me.”

“Put what?”

Ellen pulled on her
hem, looking into the distance. “The fact that I was never good enough for
anyone. My mother sent me away to become something better. Then my aunt and
uncle who raised me sent me away. That was fifty years ago, and this is a big
waste of my time.”

“I think it’s
valuable in helping both of you. It gives me a better window to see you.”

Ellen sat back and
crossed her arms. “It’s funny. I spent my entire childhood trying to win my
mother’s approval and love, and my aunt and uncle’s as well. I also tried hard
to win friendship with the rich girls in boarding school, to be accepted, but I
wasn’t good enough. Then I spent my entire marriage trying to keep my husband’s
love. I’ve devoted myself to trying to win my children’s love. In fact
 …
I don’t seem very
 …
successful
 …”
Ellen’s voice cracked as she spoke. “Now look what
you’ve done.” She reached for a tissue and dabbed her tears. “All I want is to
be loved. Why is it so difficult? Why must I be the one to put in all the
effort? I try so hard to be loving, to be good and kind
 …
and thoughtful. My children said I smothered them,
Jonathan said I love too much.” Ellen glared at Dr. Morris. “Can you really
love too much?”

Dr. Morris cleared
his throat. “There are times when we love someone incapable of returning that
love. We expect too much of them
 …
and
sometimes, we might actually enjoy the challenge.”

“How can anyone
enjoy fighting for every thin morsel of love? Every crumb?”

“If Jonathan did
leave, would you feel abandoned? Like you did after your father died and your
mother gave you away?”

Ellen turned away.
“But, that’s not going to happen now, is it, Doctor?”

“That depends on
both of you.”

“No, Doctor. That
depends on you. That is what I’m paying you for. I am concerned about Jonathan.
I have no idea how he feels. You tell me he is making progress and then you ask
me a bunch of absurd questions to change the subject. All I need to know is—is
he finally cured? You haven’t told me anything that he tells you. I have a
right to know. I am his wife.”

“Mrs. Horvath, you
do understand I must respect your husband’s confidentiality. He cannot express
himself openly and honestly if he thinks I will simply turn around and tell you
everything. The same respect goes for you.”

“I do not need
respect, Doctor. I need answers. Is he fixed? Is he better?”

He remained silent
and unreadable.

“All right,” Ellen
said and picked up her purse. “There are plenty of other good doctors out there
quite happy to take my money. I can accept your failure to fix him, but I need
to know before I waste any more time with you. You see,
time
, Doctor, is
not on my side, now is it?”

Dr. Morris blushed.
He shifted his notebook and glasses aside. “He is better. Remarkably better in
fact.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t normally disclose personal information,
naturally, but I do see that he is working through the challenges and accepting
his role in all of this. And I am quite pleased with his progress. I still
believe we should continue the sessions,” he added, taking Ellen’s hand. “And I
think we are now ready to resume joint sessions.”

“Whatever is
needed,” Ellen said and let go of his hand. “I will do whatever I can to make
this work.”

“Yes, Mrs. Horvath,
I can see just how determined you are.”

***

Sunlight poured into
the glass walls and ceiling of the solarium, turning the deep, emerald green
leaves a glowing and transparent lemon-lime. Ellen lay back in the chaise
lounge and admired the plants and flowers spread across the tiled floor. This
had always been her favorite room to relax and read in, sipping her tea. Even
in the middle of winter, she would bask in the warmth of the sun, surrounded by
beautiful flowers.

The gardenias were
by far her favorites, for more than sentimental reasons. She had gardenias in
her wedding bouquet, but she also loved them for their elegance and beauty.
Gardenias are rose-like in their abundant petals and cupped shape form, but
unlike roses in the thick, sculptural form of their petals and the purity of
their virgin-white coloring, with never a trace of yellow, or a hint of pink or
a cast of green. Gardenias are perfection. Chaste and pure.

As Ellen inhaled the
sweet fragrance, she noticed her orchids against the far glass wall.
Ultra-fragile, delicate, susceptible to any change in humidity and cold; in
fact, one cold breeze and all the petals would fall off. Then a long period of
dormancy with no show of flowers, no color or beauty. She had always thought of
herself as a gardenia but now, as she glanced at her orchids, she felt more
like one of them.

If Jonathan did
divorce her, she would be even more vulnerable, more fragile. She couldn’t
endure a season of dormancy. And what if there were endless seasons of
desolation? She couldn’t imagine being with any other man. Besides, God had
blessed their union; she couldn’t get an annulment, for that would mean
admitting to the world Jonathan had been unfaithful and erasing forty years
together as if they never existed; no longer Mrs. Horvath. Divorce would also
mean she would never be able to remarry in the eyes of God.

She had to keep him.
But how?
How to remind him of the love we share?
The counseling
was helping. But was she wrong putting so much faith in the marriage counselor?
Charlene Archer swore Dr. Morris could work miracles. Was that what she really
needed? A miracle?
You have to fight for what you believe in,
she
reminded herself.
I’ll make him see.
The private investigator will bring
out Samantha’s past, and then he’ll see what a terrible mistake she is.