Page 11 of The Therapist

SIX

Sandy

Today is the next step of the plan and it’s all going so well. Ben telling me that he could no longer treat me was a bit of a spanner in the works but I’ve adjusted.

It took more effort than I would have thought to get ‘the husband’ to agree. But I managed it in the end.

I waited until the children were in bed and definitely asleep.

He likes to do the bedtime routine, to play the ‘good dad’.

He reads a story to Lila first, lies next to her on her bed with the princess pink duvet cover and reads about fairies and creatures who live in a magical tree.

I enjoyed creating my daughter’s bedroom.

I made her the kind of space that I wished for growing up, when I had a room with a bed and a chair, a desk and a bookcase filled with books that I never had any interest in reading.

Sometimes, when the children are at school, I go into that bedroom and lie down on the bed and imagine a different childhood for myself, one with glamorous wealthy parents whose only desire was for me to shine brightly and look beautiful.

I know it’s fashionable to blame your childhood for the person you are but I think that I am who I was always going to be.

My mother, Maureen, with her sensible short hair and a chunky body, was never quite able to believe I had come from her.

‘People used to stop me in the streets,’ she has told me, ‘just to say what a beautiful baby I had.’ They never said that about my older sister and that’s because she looks exactly like my mother.

And she has grown into the same kind of woman, lumpy and practical.

She’s a librarian in a small country town, and when I see her, I can’t help looking at the rough skin on her hands or getting irritated by the fact that she doesn’t wear any make-up.

She has two children with her husband, who’s a farmer, and I don’t think I’ve exchanged more than a perfunctory greeting with her for years.

I think my mother would have preferred it if my beauty had diminished as I got older, rather than blossomed.

I know she felt that if she could keep me on the straight and narrow, direct my interests towards working hard and doing good, then I would become a worthy human being despite my looks.

Beauty seemed to be inherently problematic to my parents, as though it was an indication of something lacking in the person, something that took away from who they could be rather than something that added to a life.

My father had his own brand of keeping me on track to becoming a good person.

But there was no way either of them could change the path I was on.

Only I could do that with a stupid infatuation.

They were delighted when I got married and then had two children because they thought I had finally settled into an acceptable life.

‘You’ll never love anything the way you love your children,’ my mother told me when I was pregnant with Felix and I wanted to believe her but I knew it wasn’t the truth.

Children require sacrifice, demand you give them everything you have and everything you are, and I was never cut out for that.

But I’ll make sure things are put right now.

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.

‘Thank you,’ I said, knowing that this was the best way to end the conversation. His eyes were already closing when I left the room.

He often falls asleep on the sofa, which suits me because it means I have our marriage bed to myself.

This morning, I didn’t remind him about the appointment. I wanted to see if he remembered.

He took the kids to school without saying anything and then he came back.

‘I told Paul I won’t be in until lunch. I think I should take my own car to this appointment. Can you text me the address?’

‘I think we should go together.’

‘No, I need to get back to work afterwards. Things are getting really tough at the office and I need to be there.’

I waved my hand at him, not wanting to hear any of that.

‘Please, let’s drive in together. We need to talk about what we want to achieve with therapy.’

He sat down at our small kitchen table, picked up half a piece of toast that Felix had left and chewed his way through it, disgusting me.

‘Whatever you want, Sandy,’ he said and I smiled. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.

‘I’ll get dressed,’ I told him.

And now we are on our way through early-morning traffic and I find myself excited and worried at the same time.

What will happen in the appointment, and more importantly, who will Lana believe?

There are three sides to every story: his, mine and the truth.

I need Lana to believe that my story is reality, mine is the one she can trust. That’s what I need.