Betrayal

Prologue

July

1998

IT IS commonly thought that our purpose in life is defined by our most noble endeavors, when in truth, our small daily choices, seemingly of little consequence, define our lives in totality.

Like any couple, Andy and Clare Klein wanted a long and happy marriage, with thoughtful caring family values, defined by a purpose undeniably honorable and virtuous. Such was their promise to themselves and to each other. But promises and life share a common foe, they change when least expected or least desired. And so it came as a shock for Andy to find himself standing with a crowd he fought against; a crowd he grew to detest, that he no longer identified with, that were no longer his friends. They were neighbors, to be sure, but weeks of glaring eyes and snubbed salutations made any semblance of acquaintance unlikely. They were not his people; he was not theirs. And though he prided himself a simple man: kind, generous, and unassuming; he was now staring—catatonic, at a luminous spectacle. An unreal scene where he alone understood the depth of the tragedy; he alone presaged its happening; he alone told its story. But no one listened. In front of him, the tragic end to an unjust vanity played out to a finality no one desired or even thought possible. He willed it not to, but it was happening anyway. It was a lie he told himself to assuage his guilt for being a homeowner on Beekman. His naiveté betrayed him; he would be hostage to the guilt for many years to come. 

The neighbors stood alongside Andy, gawking at the unfolding product of their depravity. They too, didn’t think it would happen, though they didn’t really care. Theirs was an ignorance of collective guilt, born of denial and self-consumption. They were complicit in the looming catastrophe, but to look at them, watching as if in a theater, they just didn’t know it. This was simply a sideshow, a carnival of sorts; it would all pass and things would return to normal, just as they always wanted.

Clare stood by her husband’s side and also stared in disbelief. She and Andy clashed on this issue, a schism that upended the foundation of their marriage. But she was wrong. It was a truth not to her liking; it ran against her instincts and would not easily be reconciled with who she was.

The first responders had not yet arrived. Andy paced the perimeter of the crowd, the apathy in their faces was palpable; he needed to do something—anything—to prove to himself that he did not cause this calamity, to be on the side of right, rather than indifference; because that was the scene: indifference. While someone else’s life was in turmoil, the Beekman crowd stood indifferent. Andy wanted more, but it was now out of his control.

1

November 3rd

2010

“MR. KLEIN, you may go in now."

The receptionist jarred him from reverie. This wasn’t unusual, as he often escaped to someplace safe, someplace less complicated. Nothing real held his attention for very long. It was as if he were living on the periphery of his own existence. Daydreaming was an escape all too easy and an indulgence that wasn’t really a vice. He was addicted, to be sure, but it was not likely to be a problem for anyone but himself, or so he believed. The possibility that life was slipping away, or maybe that he was entering into another realm, wasn’t quite apparent. He agreed to do this; to partake in actively dismembering his life—to a total stranger, no less. It was the only way forward; it had been agreed upon—his wife had decided. They reached an impasse, and he was the only way out of it. He did not entirely disagree, but there was some part of him that did. Despite his agreeableness to find answers and his willingness to first look inward for why anything was amiss, he yearned for affirmation that his view of things was more noble than hers. Confrontation, however, was not his forte just as agreeing to disagree was not her virtue. It was not always thus. Andy changed after the event, some twelve years prior. Then, his reason for being was shaken; his moral compass, shattered. He had mis-stepped—a cavernous leap, in his mind—leaving loss and life and trust and faith as promises betrayed, all a matter of his doing, a consequence of his emotional weakness. He couldn’t bear to believe the truth back then and so he turned a moment too soon and all turned with him. It was how he saw the past, and it weighed on him; stones carried aloft in a Sisyphean effort to find redemption. But it was all to no avail. He was now here at an office of therapeutic intervention. A scientific approach to a crisis of courage. An odd solution, he thought, but then… maybe?

His eyes regained their focus. The Dieffenbachia in the corner partially hidden by the receptionist, stiffened back into shape with its defining green and white accents throwing the receptionist in sharp repose.

“Er, uh, thank you, ma’am,” he muttered, “through this door?”

The receptionist smiled while glancing over her half-rimmed readers and pointed approvingly to the wooden framed door with frosted privacy glass, and Session Room stenciled in italic cursive. She wore a nonchalance that could easily be overlooked or dismissed as someone too involved in other particulars. Andy couldn’t help believing her nonchalance belied a dull curiosity about him. She must have wondered about all those weak-kneed patients passing to-and-fro. Did she foster imaginings of anxiety attacks, impulsive hand washings or belligerent outbreaks? She must have seen them all. He wondered if she listened in on session conversations, hiding smirks on patient departures. He knew this line of thought wasn’t helpful. Obsession was his calling card and limiting its boundaries was yet a new task that proved things were getting worse for him. Andy finally returned the smile with a knowing bow of the head. He was on to her.

“Hello Mr. Klein,” came a greeting as he entered the room. “I’m Anna Dietrich. Please, have a seat.”

Andy greeted Anna with a smile and then looked about the room. It was the place he expected to be spending a lot of time; time spent talking about things he hadn’t spoken of and wasn’t sure he was ready to share. That he still had optimism seeing a shrink would help rescue him from the doldrums of his current situation, was laughable, the thought of which put a smile on his face. He chose the left of the two leather chairs facing the glass top desk that Anna was standing behind, hoping his smile would appear appropriate and not make him seem like an idiot.

The office was a long rectangular shape, sparsely furnished in a simple elegant style. A sofa bordered one end of the rectangular room while the desk and two chairs occupied the opposite end. A few tall plants were decoratively placed around the office and two matching oversized art works of Mexico City and Paris hung on a wall behind him, opposite the desk. A large window, which seemed to prevent any part of the room from hiding its truths, sterilized the entire area in bright light. Anna reached out her hand and he politely extended his for a brief uninspiring shake.

“So, Mr. Klein, what brings you in today.”

She started right in, sounding professional, Let’s get to the point here, kinda. Andy thought it came off like he was at a furniture store and a commission was weighing in the balance. A brief panic overtook him as he realized this was the first time someone actually cared about what he had to say. Years had gone by with him evading his wife and obsessing in private. Now he had to put words to feelings. It was awkwardly deliberate, as if two worlds were about to collide, oil and water, Earth and space. Would they mix? Would it make sense? His mind was beginning to run away with him when he found himself saying… 

“Well, Doc, I’ve never done anything like this so I’m not sure of the protocol.” He followed form with form.

“Well then, let’s lay some ground rules.”

She didn’t hesitate. She had a no-nonsense style that gave Andy the impression this would be more like a transaction than a sharing of stories. It gave him a sense of ease.

“First, call me Anna. The less boundaries between us the better. May I call you Andrew?”

“Andy works.”

“Okay, Andy it is. There, that’s a start. Now, I’m here to help you with whatever you’d like. I may not always have an answer for you and the process is often slow and it’s not always obvious that things are improving. Patience is required. Sometimes situations are like peeling back an onion. I know, it’s a tired metaphor, but it applies. Over time, we can both see and understand more about the source of whatever it is you’d like to understand. It’s only at that point that we can decide what course of action to take. I’d like to emphasize the we. This process is not a passive one. You have to work at this, and any solution to your problems, if you have any, we will solve together. Your feelings and opinions have value. They will shape how we move forward.”

“Okay Doc... er, Anna. Sounds fine by me.” He was beginning to loosen up. His attempt to control the situation was being usurped, but in a good way. She was taking the helm, while he, in turn, felt his first sense of release.

“So,” Anna followed, “It’s usually best to start with something simple, something obvious. You decided to make an appointment. Why?”

Her directness was like a hypodermic needle coming at you from across the room. You know what it’s for and who it’s for and as it comes closer and closer you resign yourself to the fact that it’s going to be in you in short time, and that you need it and there’s no arguing the fact. To save the patient you must take the medicine. It was simple clarity, a commodity he had taken for granted and now sorely missed.

“Well, to be straight up about it, I’m doing this to save my marriage. My wife and I kinda see the world differently and I guess I’m rubbing her the wrong way. She sees it as my problem and feels this is the way to get back on track.”

That was easy, he thought, maybe too easy. His frankness surprised him. That he drew the dividing line so quickly between him and his wife gnawed at him a bit. It was now clear that these sessions have an obvious danger. There is nowhere to hide. There is no way to plan your answers in advance. He had no idea where Anna would mine next and his response was expected before he fully understood the weight of what he was saying. It was effortless and cathartic, but the guilt soon followed. He was selling out his wife, plain and simple.

“Do you agree... that it is your problem?” Anna queried.

She was direct and unflinching and intent on holding him to his own observations. He felt something in the recesses of his mind, lurking around in alleyways that were dimly lit. These were things he never shared with Clare. He never felt the mood was right or her temperament was willing or that their marriage could survive the frankness. Anna’s style of probing empowered Andy to say the things he often left off the table, things that were off limits for discussion or just too toxic. In a way, this was another welcome outlet of sorts, despite her dangerous mining techniques. He expected the usual beating around the bush with, “How does that make you feel?” The classic line you’d expect from a therapist. Instead, he surprisingly found himself settling back in the chair, the anxious threat of some horrid exposure receding back into his subconscious.

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know that I’m the problem. I have my issues, like anybody else, but she thinks I’m not letting go or moving on with my life. She thinks I obsess too much over stuff I shouldn’t care about.” Andy looked Anna directly in the eyes to gauge her intent. Was she on to something already? Was she taking sides... my side?

“And you think your take on things strikes a reasonable balance?”

“Yeah, I do,” Andy blurted out. Embarrassed, he paused to appear more reflective. Anna smiled quietly. She’d learned long ago to give patients space to add or change what they’d just said, especially if it had an emotional edge.

“Well... maybe there is something to it, I’m not entirely sure. Maybe that’s why I’m here. My wife set the ultimatum, but I do have my own demons and maybe another opinion would be helpful. The ultimatum may not entirely be unfair.”

Anna played with her pen, flipping it one way, then another. She was thinking, strategizing her next move. She never took notes during a session. It was often too distracting for a patient. Early in her career, a patient changed the tone and direction of what they were saying as soon as they saw her pick up her pen and start writing. Since then, she only listened and filed a broad picture of someone’s situation in her mind. She saved the writing for later.

Anna noted that in the brief exchange, Andy had already contradicted himself. “I don’t know that I am the problem,” then, “I have my demons.” The denial started early, as it usually does. She studied him for a while without responding. It slowed the tempo of the exchange and allowed her to take in his demeanor. She was looking for clues of stress or agitation; signs that might key her in to a patient’s mental stability. Andy was unperturbed. He sat back in the chair with both feet on the ground, hands resting on the wooden arms. 

“So,” she finally continued, “it may be fair that your wife asked you to see someone?”

“Yeah... that’s possible.”

“How long have you and your wife not seen eye-to-eye?” Anna asked.

Andy felt a little sting. He was already beginning to wonder where this would end. Maybe he shared too much. He was expecting to be probed, prodded, pinched, and piqued, but he didn’t expect Clare to be a part of it. Maybe it was his naïveté. In some odd way, he would protect her from blame; this was his albatross to bear, his anguish to quell.

“We’ve been married for twenty-five years.” It came out slowly, like he was looking for landmines along the way. “I think, for the most part, we’ve had a good marriage.” He paused. It seemed he wanted to say more but was stuck mid-thought in a stare out the window’s glare.

“But you feel there are still issues between you, right?” Anna nudged.

“Well, yes,” Andy finally succumbed, begrudgingly coming back to life, “but all marriages have issues, especially after twenty-five years, don’t you think?”

“True,” Anna answered. “But I sense...” she paused for affect, “there is something ongoing between you and your wife that keeps coming up, over and over. As you said before, she thinks you’re obsessing over things, maybe a bit too much.” Her voice lilted up an octave on too much, suggesting an ask rather than an assumption of a truth he may as yet still be hiding. This was the usual sparring match with a new patient. She lunged in with an initial stab at the heart of an issue, he parried with denial and obfuscation to deflect exposure of a painful truth, her riposte then cut further to the core, the more denial on his part merely pointing the way to the heart of the matter. She, all the while, hesitantly stepping around in his mental abode trying to avoid knocking over precariously placed vases or sharp objects. The lunges and parries can, no doubt, cause damage, so she knew her cuts needed a surgeon’s skill. She knew her observation, the obsessing a bit too much, was a leap on her part, extending deeper into his psyche, maybe uninvited. In the end, the sparring helps to unearth buried painful experiences, but it can also set things back for an unknown amount of time and trust must be rebuilt. It was a fine line to tread.

“I’ve had trouble letting go of some things,” Andy added, “but I think some things can be life changing and to ignore them is to ignore... well, to ignore a piece of who you are.”

Anna sensed a kernel of truth was close at hand. She pressed on. “And what you value as life changing, your wife does not?”

Andy’s left hand closed in on itself, squeezing to the point his nails dug into his thenar eminence. He welcomed the pain; it was alive in an existence apart from him. He released and felt a calming energy flow from his hand up his arm and descend into his chest and abdomen.

“Things happen Doc, uh... Anna, and I don’t expect my wife and I to see everything eye to eye, but I think…” he paused as if realizing he’d traveled too far down a wrong alley, “I think she is sometimes too insensitive. I mean, she can sometimes be too dismissive.” Andy’s voice quavered a little as he pleaded his position.

Anna knew that marriage issues were fraught with the usual he-said she-said battle lines. It was often near impossible to really know what was going on with a couple. Much of what one shared in therapy was a perspective that compensated for an insecurity; her job was to find the events that trigger the insecurity and consequent poor coping skills. That there are poor coping skills is a given; they wouldn’t be sitting in her chair if they coped well with life’s vagaries. Her work was usually a sticky dissection of past events and intentions and outcomes that ultimately drew a landscape of how one saw the world and engaged it. For now, at least, Anna noted that Andy still sat calmly, maintaining direct gaze without looking away. There were no facial tics, fidgety hands or noisy feet. He was likely not hiding anything. He was telling his version of the truth. She wasn’t used to this so early in therapy. It was a welcome relief. Usually, it took a few sessions to build the kind of trust that allowed a patient to open up, instead of treading around the periphery of their life’s angst. She took this as a sign to probe further.

“Is your wife dismissive of you or just the things you care about?”

Andy shifted in the chair but kept his gaze on Anna. “Doc, it seems sometimes she only cares about herself.”

Anna noted an almost professorial look as he tented his fingers, tilted his head and gave a broken half-smile. She didn’t know Andy well enough; was this his confident, in charge look, or was it a facade? Do I scratch the veneer and see what’s lurking below, she thought? Is it too early?

“And you?”

“Well, I kinda feel.., I’d say I’m  more normal—average,” he declared. “I care about things, about people!”

Anna let that statement linger in the room for a while. It was provocative and required a deeper probe. She had decided not to push him too far—this being a first session—but still, she needed something to bring them back to this depth at their next meeting. She had one more question she needed to ask.

“Can you give me an example of what you care about that she doesn’t?”

Andy’s confident gaze slowly dissolved into a vacant stare. Anna realized the question hit a soft spot. Dead air hung in the space between them. He squirmed in the chair as if some perfect spot would end the inquisition. His hands began fidgeting as he turned to stare at the floor.

“Andy... if you’d like to end our session at this point, it would be okay to do so. We don’t have to cover every detail in one sitting?”

The room fell silent. Andy’s hands were a knot of fingers in motion, his eyes locked on the slats of the hardwood floor extending off into the rectangular distance.

2

April

1998

IT WAS rarely contemplated, rarely seen, and rarely the focus of conversation. And though it stretched only three blocks, they were long and serpentine and hidden from wayward travelers. Its repute was the envy of most, though few would ever admit it, even to themselves; the desire revealing an unbridled want that was unseemly. In coffee shops around town, reference to Beekman whispered across the table. In the few boutiques dotting the small-town square, a simple upturned eyebrow or tilt of the head toward a known Beekman, told the story by those witnessing providence in their presence. It was the idyllic suburban community, the type featured in movies with a gorgeous young actress driving quietly down the middle of the street, her blue-eyed chiseled featured husband sitting by her side, both smiling in nonchalance to worldly cares.

Beekman was nestled along the north bank of the Ohio River. It was not central to anything in Portville; in fact, you’d have to know how to get there if you were invited to be there. The street was lined with unassuming two-story colonial style homes, with well-manicured lawns, garden beds teaming with meticulously chosen roses, geraniums, and azaleas, in a perfect spring parade of colors, and oak trees bordering the wide avenue forming a tunnel of branches and leaves walking arm-in-arm in brotherly love. It was a beguiling enticement for all to visit. Indeed, that was its charm. The homes were large enough but not too large, just adequate for genteel living without being ostentatious. The yards were spacious enough to indulge the art of horticulture without an appearance of being a spectacle. Beekman was the quintessential picturesque neighborhood that anyone could easily fall in love with; and those fortunate to live there knew they were the pride of Portville.

On this spring day, the baptism of another beautiful summer was evident by the warm southern breeze cresting off the Ohio River, the oak trees’ bright green buds bursting with redemption, and the welcome innocent laughter of children.

The images of such a setting can only mean one thing, Andy was a lucky man or maybe deserving or simply ordained. Whatever divine or happenstance reason brought him to this point in his life, there would be no mistaking its appearance: a grace of fortune. His wealth was not material in any sense of the word for his capital means were not extravagant, but they were far from trivial. He and Clare had more than sufficient financial standing not to concern themselves with balancing checkbooks or putting funds aside for the unexpected. They often purchased what they wanted when they wanted… within reason. It was a comfortable life. The truth of his wealth lay in his circumstances. He married well, had two adoring children, and lived on Beekman. This did not fulfill an ultimate plan that had been pressed into fruition but was rather an afterthought, a simple living of life that meandered in any which way and ended up right where it was. Or so he thought. Choices were made to get to this point in his life but attention to the granular details was never his penchant. Still, he knew he was blessed in some way or other, without obsessing the reasons why. In this mindless state of being, Andy was unaware of a shift in the winds that would portend a crack in his foundation. Subtle as it was, one could forgive him for driving past it every day without understanding its intent to reshape the world around him. Such is the usual way of fate playing a card of misfortune, beginning as something small, unnoticed, within the norms of life’s whims. Andy had seen the sign for months, its omen veiled in simplicity. It was a house for sale, but that belied its true meaning. In the vicissitudes of life, homes are vacated and reinhabited often, with little meaning other than a change in taste or a need for space. Sometimes, however, a vacancy tells a different story, a story of decline, not in one family but in the social equation of a society. Such was the change taking place on Beekman, in Portville, in Ohio, in the Midwest, in the country. It started with a sign: For Sale.

Andy turned the last corner of his drive home from work just as the afternoon glow descended on Beekman. He crept along while children were still at play. The wide avenue made for a makeshift playground, with hopscotch squares and football goal lines marked out in colorful bold chalk lines down the middle of the street. Hula hooping, jumping ropes, and a game of catch filled out the periphery. Andy kept a cautious eye for balls rolling out of driveways, expecting retrieval by an unsuspecting retriever. Every afternoon was like a summer day once the permafrost of winter receded. It may only have been fifty degrees, but that was the beginning of summer—in spring. The paralyzing months of Canadian cold fronts descending from the north, had finally given way to a warm embrace that unshackled the pent-up expectations from months of confinement. No encouragement was needed. Nature had set them free.

Andy slid into the driveway of a white two-story traditional colonial home, accented with a centered deep blue door, bordered with twin Greek styled columns supporting an entryway overhang, matched with deep blue shutters on upper and lower windows. The contrasting hues were both bold and subtle, betraying artful sophistication. The flowers cascading away from the portico yielded an array of colors and scents.

While outside teamed with kids in spontaneous amusements, inside the Klein home was a quiet sanctuary. Andy’s entrance went unnoticed as he slid out of his blue sport coat and dropped his leather briefcase on the first step of the staircase leading to the bedrooms. It was all the same routine, five days a week. He was punctual, predictable, and usually practical. He called when he left work and would usually find some way to let Clare know if he was running late. On this day, however, there was a little twist, just as he arrived home.

“Hello,” he called out, to gauge which direction of the house to explore first.

“I’m upstairs,” was the answer he was hoping to hear. He bounded up the steps, two by two, and strolled into the bedroom without betraying the need to catch his breath. Clare was propped up on their bed reading a novel.

“Hi Hon,” Clair said with a smile as she closed the book with a finger place-mark. Andy came over and gave her his usual end-of-day kiss.

“I could have sworn I heard you pull into the driveway a half hour ago. Where’ve you been?” Clare asked.

“Jordan was nailing a new sign on his front lawn: For Sale by Owner. I had to find out how things were going.”

“And?”

“Well, he said they haven’t had a walk-through in over two months. He’s pretty much fed up with his realtor and decided to list the property on his own. This was his second realtor and still no takers.”

Clare’s response was slow in coming. Andy initially thought she didn’t hear him. He looked up from loosening the knot in his tie and saw that Clare was triggered into a brooding disposition. It was a familiar topic of discussion that reared its head every few months with little change in circumstance. Essentially, the neighbors were moving. It had become a stressed sell, but a buyer was still only a wish—not yet a reality.

“I feel for them,” she finally said, the frustration creeping to the surface. “It’s just not fair. I hate to see them leave but why is it taking so long? This must be driving Sarah crazy. They’re burning through all their savings.” Sarah was Jordan’s other half; the house in question sat opposite theirs.

“These times have not been generous, Hon. You know the factory that closed last year? The one across town? I didn’t realize it at first but it’s apparently driving prices down. In fact, there just aren’t enough lookers.” Andy’s response was the pat answer he’d always given that Clare was always unwilling to entertain. She felt the plight of outside communities had no bearing on Beekman and that time would prove her right.

“I don’t get it,” Clare said. “This is a nice neighborhood. We have the nicest neighborhood in town; the homes are beautiful; the people are nice; anyone would die to live here. And I don’t see what that factory has to do with Beekman. That’s way over there and we’re over here,” Clare said defiantly.

“I know,” said Andy, acknowledging Clare’s frustration.

Sarah moving was disappointing enough. She was Clare’s best friend on Beekman; losing her was like losing a sister she never had. To see her suffering the whims of raw capitalism at play was simply unfair. The markets were something Clare understood, but she savvied herself, and friends by extension, as above their worst intentions. The rules of supply and demand had a downside for some, but If you invest in the best—her favorite motto, you can expect a soft landing when things go sour.

“I would’ve agreed with you last year,” Andy continued, “when the Johnsons first put the house on the market. But it just hasn’t moved. I’m afraid that factory closing is telling a bigger story and people are getting savvy to it. Ohio is a Rustbelt state and manufacturing has been in decline for the past twenty years. We’ve been lucky to be insulated up till now, but I guess it’s our turn. No one wants to buy... not now, and definitely not in a town that recently lost over a thousand jobs. It’s too unpredictable for home values.”

Clare squeezed the book she was reading into a rolled baton. “Those damn companies are sending everything to Mexico and China and it’s ruining our community,” she said, pointing the makeshift club at Andy.

“I hear ya, Hon, it ain’t fair but that’s how it is. This is a nice neighborhood, and we are pretty lucky to live here. But we’re lucky, that’s the important part,” Andy replied. “My job seems secure. Who would’ve known that accounting can withstand recessions? You know what they say, death and taxes are the only predictable events in life. That means the undertakers and I will always have a job,” Andy chuckled.

“I don't see the humor in that... at all,” Clare jabbed balefully, her voice now seething with anger.

“Okay, okay. I just thought a little humor could make things more palatable. I know you like clarity, Clare. You always want the world to make sense. But sometimes it just doesn’t. It’s unfortunate for Jordan and Sarah. I’m sure Megan isn’t too happy either. She has a lot of friends she’ll be leaving behind. Junior high is a tough time to start over.”

Andy tried to back his way out of the minefield with Clare. His attempts at keeping the mood light sometimes crossed the line—her line, an invisible rampart that shifted under his feet. He was never sure where her allegiances were these days. It was clear that time had changed her perspective on life. But it wasn’t always walking on eggshells.

When their dating began some sixteen years prior, it was his humor that brought them together. They met in the spring of nineteen eighty-two at Ohio State. Though academically they were a year apart, his accounting requirements overlapped with her business major. They sat two empty seats from each other ensconced in darkness in a class with over a hundred students. The large auditorium lighting favored the lectern and blackboard, while the graduated seats climbing thirty to forty rows back, disappeared into gradual anonymity. It was all quite by chance, but Andy remembered nothing from that first day he happened to sit near Clare. He squeezed down the row of seats hoping for a chair unencumbered by students on either side. He took no notice of Clare. It may have been that her head was turned the very instant he spied the empty seats. He was simply glad to spread out with all his stuff. It was his turn to provide the class with a transcript of the lecture and Andy prided himself on taking good notes. It required the syllabus and text and writing pads and anything else that could be used for reference or note taking. But then, there she was, the random turn of the head that would change his life. From that point on, every reason he could think of warranted another turn in her direction: a crick in his neck needed massaging, a pressure point in his leg required readjusting, a late arrival coming down the aisle was met with an eye of disapprobation, even a flickering sconce on the wall was examined for consistency. By the end of class, he could have sketched her profile from memory. She had left an indelible imprint, all the while paying him no mind. Of course, the next time the class met he returned to row twenty-seven, seat E, and there she was in seat B. It happened four times in two weeks and by the end of the second week, Andy was sufficiently behind in the class that dropping it from his semester line up might have been the prudent move. When class let out, Clare turned right to exit as she usually did, but this time she turned back to Andy, stopping him in his tracks. He assumed she wanted to exit in the other direction and began the effort to step clear, but she stared at him. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t exist to her, and her profile would fade ever so slowly in his mind in silent penance for having sat next to a woman he was falling for and doing nothing about it. His stunned face took in her beautiful smile, warm round hazel eyes, and elegant long auburn hair. She said, “We can’t keep doing this, you know. It’s not good for your grade. Why don’t you buy me coffee?” Andy stood flat footed with no response. Finally, he mustered, “I’ll follow you to the end of the earth.” Clare laughed and said, “Well then, follow me, I know a place but it’s not quite that far.” They sat in the Union sipping coffee for two hours talking apartheid politics. It was the hot issue of the time—to divest or not— and they had to navigate demonstrators in The Oval to reach the Union. They didn’t quite see eye-to-eye on divestiture as a political protest to South African inequality. She took the more business friendly approach of maintaining financial commitments on the odd chance that divestment might hurt the very people victimized by apartheid. It was a win-win approach: changing social dystopia can only come by keeping investments unchanged. Andy sat and listened to Clare’s philosophical reasoning. She was soft spoken, deliberate, and eloquent. He could tell she cared about the issue. That he saw things differently didn’t really matter. Wading into politics wasn’t a usual pastime of his but he was inclined to see things more plainly: support what you’d like to see more of, don’t support what you find reprehensible. It was no different than rearing kids or training dogs. You don’t reward bad behavior. But Andy mostly remembered the earnest twinkle in her eyes, that she wore a soft purple blouse with slim fitting jeans, Stan Smith sneakers and no socks—a sign of spring in the air. That last bit teased him to no end. It was as if she dangled high heel shoes off the tip of her toes in a play of seduction. Of course, it was all in his head, but he was smitten.

Clare had two doting parents and no siblings to rival. While an only child often wished for a sister to share doll dress up or imaginary tea or make-believe fairy tales come true, Clare was not of that ilk. She was content in the limelight of total devotion. Her parents, some thought, were maybe too obliging. But in all fairness, isn’t that what children are for—to spoil? It was the defense they would offer up to the occasional tease from friends. Indeed, they hovered with every activity and Clare easily accommodated their needs. What’s a daughter to do? In the years to come it would be called helicopter parenting, but in the upper-class Wexley suburb of Columbus Ohio, it was already becoming a thing. Clare was indulged with nicely embroidered dresses with matching patent leather Mary Jane’s for rather informal occasions. She managed the whole cast of American Girl dolls when her friends were elated to have just one. Visits to the pediatrician were peppered with every concern her mother could conceive to prevent the most esoteric of diseases. A fever was possibly malaria, a cough—diphtheria, diarrhea—cholera. Doctors heard about the latest article on tropical diseases not from their monthly journals but from Clare’s mom, ever diligent in keeping no stone unturned. Teachers second guessed themselves when issuing semester grades, fearful that Clare’s mom would launch interminable complaints of foul play. Their attempts to counsel the benefits of allowing the occasional B for mediocre performance went unheeded and were derided as ineffectual parenting. Even college professors had more than chance opportunities to meet Clare’s mom. Both she and her mom were similarly strong willed, and it surprised neither of her parents that she intended to get her business degree and join the family’s financial advising firm. Such was her focus, determination, and pride.

At Ohio State, Clare was singularly indispensable. She organized social events, rallied for women’s causes, and was a fount of wisdom to steer others clear of choppy waters. She alone started fund raisers for local children in need or fomented political action against unpopular legislation in Columbus. She alone would mount offensives against college administrators for raising tuition, intended to fund a new campus building while leaving dorms overcrowded and in disrepair. That she lived off-campus in a well-appointed apartment was beside the point. She valued commitment to friendship. Your cause was her cause and if you had an issue to contend with, Claire was someone you wanted on your side.

By comparison, Andy was just one of the guys. The occasional rowdy frat party, daily beer pongs, and any pickup sport that weather, manpower or the required ball would allow, filled out his days on any given week. Still, Clare found Andy to be unlike the other puerile men she’d met at college. Andy respected her in ways reminiscent of her dad. He always assumed she could do or accomplish whatever she considered desirable. He had no sexual agenda to impose and she found herself setting the pace for their physical affections. By end of college they were inseparable and everyone regaled their perfection for each other; their names, Clare and Andy, always uttered in unison. There was no errand too small, no trip too far, no meeting too long that they would not do it together. It would seem growing apart was near impossible when they breathed the same air every day.

But life has other means to define a person, and like a seed growing from nothing into something colossal, this thing emerged between them. Somewhere along the line, things simply changed, and Andy wasn’t quite sure when or how. Certainly, marriage brings challenges that simple dating does not. Value decisions eventually have to be made about where to live, who to befriend or how to spend money. It seemed that at some point in the last sixteen years, despite similar dispositions and them spending so much time together, their life choices overlapped less and less. He now often found himself sparring with Clare over the most trivial of issues, but issues, nonetheless, that define one’s priorities. It was hard to pin down how they grew apart or differed to the point that unpredictable rifts were now commonplace; but pared down to the core, where he often noticed the person, she noticed the pedigree.

“Anyway,” Andy said, trying to pick up where they left off before the conversation went sideways, “Jordan is hoping a sale-by-owner might lower the cost enough for a buyer to finally close on the house.”

Clare was lost in silence again, this time with an expression like she was mulling over an idea.

“It’s too bad we don’t know of anyone that’s looking to buy. It would be nice to pick our new neighbors,” Clare added wishfully. 

“Well, that would be nice but that hardly ever happens.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I was just hoping we could somehow keep the nice neighborly feeling we’ve got in our little part of paradise.”

Andy let that sit a while. It sounded naïve, but then again, who couldn’t resist the fantasy of neighbors that shared your values. Clare had a way of cutting to the core, often with a finger on the pulse of life’s basic instincts. She knew what she wanted in life and compromise was an unwanted necessity.

“You know,” Andy finally offered, “I think anyone moving into this neighborhood will be pleased with what we’ve got here. I think they’ll easily blend in and enjoy being a part of our community, especially if they have kids. We’re such a kid friendly town.”

“We’ll see. I’m not so sure about that. You can’t just roll the dice and expect sevens every time,” Clare said, dismissing his terminal optimism with an air of finality.

Andy felt it best to let the conversation end on that note. While her casino craps analogy was not quite accurate—rolling sevens isn’t always prosperous—he was getting smarter about detecting the line; correcting Clare was a Pyrrhic victory if ever there was one.

“So...” Andy said, after pausing for the air to clear, “I should’ve mentioned when I first came in, I invited the Johnsons to dinner. I was feeling a little down about the possibility of them getting an offer and moving on, that I thought we should spend a last evening together.”

Clare’s face looked surprised, then softened. “Ordinarily, I’d be upset with you for springing this on me with just an hour to prepare, but I get your sentiments. I just hope it’s not the last time we have dinner with them. And... I expect your help in pulling this off.”

“No worries, Hon, let’s just order Chinese?”

Clare glared at him, threw the rolled book in his face and stormed out of the bedroom. Sometimes he just couldn’t help himself. Chinese humor was apparently off the table for the foreseeable future.

An hour later the Johnsons arrived bearing gifts of flowers and apple pie. It was what Clare appreciated most about them, especially Sarah. She was without dispute, the graceful heir to Beekman royalty—if ever there was one. The invite was only an hour old and they arrived with flowers—what class. Sarah knew precisely how to show her appreciation. She always remembered everyone’s birthday, sending Clare’s kids a humorous card that would bring a smile to a teenage face, and always a gift a kid would appreciate. The adults would get a nicely appointed card and phone call wishing them a special day. Her dinner parties were not some pedestrian affair. No, that wouldn’t do for Sarah. Her evening soirees began with a nice little invite left in one's mailbox, complete with a cute bow—Sarah style. She was the perfect hostess who knew just how to move among the guests: refilling wine glasses, offering an amusing or witty comment, and never a negative sentiment. Where others would occasionally get pithy with an observation here or an opinion there, Sarah was seemingly above it all, effortlessly keeping the ruffles of life smooth and palatable. It’s just who she was. You admired her without envying her—the envy leaving a bitter taste of wanting to be her equal. Somehow, it was okay for Sarah to be alone on that pedestal and it was probably because she was sincere. You knew her heart was just... special.

“Well, hello Sarah, I’m so glad you and Jordan, and of course, you too, Megan, could all make it on such short notice,” Clare said. Her broad smile belied her creeping anxiety of a last meal together. “Come on in.”

Megan, the Johnsons’ only child and classmate of the Kleins’ daughter, Sandy, returned the gratitude with a smile and then paired off with a patiently waiting Sandy, to a distant room.

“Hey Jordan, long time no see,” Andy joked.

“Yeah, we gotta get together like this more often.” Jordan smiled.

“Really, buddy, I’m glad you could make it, I don’t know how many more of these we can squeeze in before you get that offer on your place.”

Jordan acknowledged with a nod. “You know, I’m so busy with pre-planning the ultimate move that I haven’t given myself time to get nostalgic over leaving Beekman. I’m gonna miss you guys.”

 “Well, you won’t be crazy far, right? You’re looking at Chicago or is it Milwaukee?”

“I’m open to either one at this point. I just need to settle for a while and get the finances in order. We’re gonna crash at my brother’s place in Evanston, so I’ll be closer for job hunting. I wish I could do it from here, but the house has been on the market for a while, and I can’t accept something while this house sits vacant. It’ll have even less appeal with just bare walls to look at. I thought about just leaving and renting it, but realtors tell me the market sucks for renting just like for selling. I’m in a tight spot.”

“Well, come on in and grab a beer, you know where they are.”

The ladies paired off like the daughters before them, and soon they were all back in the kitchen fixing a plate from an impromptu takeout at the local Chinese Bistro. Despite Clare’s sudden objection to Chinese, she relented in the face of time constraints and simplicity; it was after all, a weeknight, and a school night—some concessions needed to be made. After everyone filled a plate and had time to indulge, Clare decided it was time. She allowed for a certain decorum; the propriety of invited guests and dining etiquette needed some adherence. But that time had gone. Her need to know, now trumped all other niceties.

“So,” Clare asked, “what kind of lookers have you had for your house?”

“Well,” Jordan said, “that’s been the problem. We haven’t had many, maybe two or three in the past six months.”

“We’ve dropped the price three times since January and each time we get a prospective buyer, they never make a bid,” Sarah added. “It seems we’re always chasing that sweet-spot price. It’s a little demoralizing that they don’t even try to bid us down. I think we’re either way over what the market can bear, or buyers think Beekman is too pricey and we’re not likely to budge. We just don’t know how low to go without going too low.”

“That is a tough spot,” Andy said. “I’m not savvy to the whole real estate thing. What do the realtors say?”

“That’s the thing,” Sarah chimed in again, “they’re the ones missing the curve. You’d think they should know. We’ve gone through a few realtors now and they’re either not good at what they do, or the market is just squirrely, and no one’s ever been in this situation before.”

“The prices just keep going down,” Jordan added. “I think part of the problem is that the realtors get their cut and going lower always means accepting less than what they’d expect for this neighborhood. They see a house on Beekman and think they’re gonna get a great commission, only, no one bites. They should drop the price immediately, but it runs against their instincts, especially for our block, and then we’ve missed the curve, again.”

“So, what’s the new plan, with you selling it yourselves, that is? Do you have a new strategy?” Clare asked.

“We don’t have a definite plan,” Sarah said, “we just have to be nimble and think out of the box. We figure, if we’re steering the ship, maybe we’ll notice something in a buyer that we can respond to. Up till now, the realtors have been doing all the talking. We’re not even home when the buyers visit.”

The anxiety in Clare was simmering, though only betrayed by her body language. She had slid to the edge of the chair, leaning forward on the kitchen table, her eyes fixed on Sarah with plaintive hope. 

“Andy and I were saying how nice it would be if we could help pick the new neighbors, you know, kinda keep the Beekman vibe alive,” Clare said.

“That would be nice,” said Jordan, “if we had a lot of lookers. One could fiddle around between offers to pick the best fit for Beekman. But the way things are, we’re lucky if we get any buyer. They’ll have to become Beekman, after the fact.”

Clare locked eyes with Andy as if siting refuge of a safe harbor. He met her gaze from the other side of the table with a sympathetic nod. She was clearly disappointed. He had mostly said the same thing earlier but hearing it from Jordan made it seem believable. He saw her face go blank and knew she was lost in a hollow solace. The idea of keeping Beekman, Beekman, was as important as life itself. The name had become a pronoun; it was a living creature that had its own persona. It was a fortress of integrity, auspicious values, and justifiable pride. Like a rare species threatened with extinction, it needed to be preserved.

“Don’t worry, Clare,” Andy said, with a grin, “we’ll roll out the red carpet to the new owners and they’ll be overwhelmed with our hospitality. After a few dinner parties and the football Sundays coming up, they’ll be Beekman quality in no time.”

His humor was meant to reassure, only, his timing was off. Clare was not in the mood to be trivialized. This whole situation was shifting the foundation on which she built her life. Changes like this were not in the plans. Not that anything could be done about it, but a healthy sense of anxiety was what she expected in Andy, not his reflex attempts at disarming humor.

“Tell you what, Clare,” Sarah said, “when we get a buyer, we’ll keep you in the loop. You’ll be the first on Beekman to know who they are, where they’re from... you know, all the sordid details. Maybe that’ll make the transition for you—and them—a little easier. Maybe...” Sarah got a little excited now as the idea had just surfaced and was knitting together in her mind, “maybe I can introduce you to them. You know how these things go. There’s a lot of back and forth. Since we’re doing the sale ourselves, I’m sure we’ll be doing all the legal stuff, you know, documents to sign, and inspections. It’s all a process, and I’m sure somewhere in there, there’ll be time for a little meet and greet, maybe a little lunch party, just the four of us and whomever the lucky buyers turn out to be.”

Clare’s blank face perked up. Her cheeks flushed and her wide grin told all. She so loved Sarah and that was the exact reason why. She knew just what to say—just what to do. She was the ultimate in everything.

“Thank you so much Sarah. You have no idea how that makes me feel; it puts me so much at ease.” Her eyes welled up and a tear broke free as she hurriedly excused herself from the table.

3

November 10th

2010

“HELLO ANDY.” 

Anna smiled and gestured to the left chair he had previously chosen; she was hoping to disarm any anxiety from their first session. Indeed, second visits can be more stressful than the first since the client knows what to expect; their defenses are sharpened now that the rules of the game are on the table.

Andy was prompt, dressed neatly and groomed well. He showed no hesitance in his stride or his greeting. Anna took note of these small details. While their first session ended on a down note, Anna harbored guarded optimism that things would be different this time around. It was a wishful optimism on her part for she knew quite well that therapy takes on a life of its own. You may start on an issue you’d like to explore but as the ball gets rolling it takes its own path, and with emotions and suggestions pointing in an entirely different direction, all a therapist can do is delicately walk through the landmines of someone’s memories, insecurities and triggering issues with uncertain consequences. The soft spot she happened upon in their first session was not anticipated but it was also not by chance. She felt he was gradually leading her to that very question, what does he care about that Clare does not? She contemplated not going there, that maybe the depth of their relationship hadn’t matured to the point where he’d trust her enough to be frank about what was really bothering him. But she took the leap on the grounds that if he was leading her there, what kind of therapist would she be if she didn’t read him properly? It was a dilemma she chose to act on. She followed her instinct. So far, all looked good.

“Hi Doc,” Andy replied.

“Anna is okay with me, Andy, no need to be formal.”

“Oh, right. Forgot. It’s been a week. I’ll try to remember.”

She had mentioned this before, but it was worth mentioning again. This was yet another ploy to soften his defenses. She had mentioned in their first visit that titles create boundaries and that she wanted none of it. While Andy may have felt she was simply being modest, in fact, she was staging an atmosphere where Andy would interpret her probes of uncomfortable memories as friendly chatter, not the surgical excision of a cancer that it actually was. The cure might be the same, but with therapy, the ends don’t justify the means. An aggressive excavation of deep-rooted memories can shock a patient into an unwillingness to continue with therapy. If it comes to that, you’re left with someone walking around with internal organs exposed to the world. It’s as if surgery exposed the problem but didn’t excise it. The festering gnawing knowledge of one’s emotional frailties left untreated by a therapist can cause more damage than if you simply left it all hidden from view.

 Andy settled and glanced about her office, reminding himself of the layout. Anna gave him all the time he needed; it was the final lynchpin to help patients relax and make her job that much easier. She’d been here before. This was all part of routine prepping for a new patient. After a while she was ready to begin.

“When we left off last week, we were talking about differences... differences between you and your wife,” Anna paused to gauge Andy’s reaction. 

“Yeah, sorry about that. Must have hit a nerve. I didn’t realize that topic was gonna set me off like that,” Andy confessed. His voice sounded neutral, without a plaintive or obsequious quality.

“That’s quite alright, Andy, we’re just peeling the onion, right? Somewhere along the line we expect to hit a nerve or two. The good thing is that these... nerves, they’re like a signpost pointing in a direction we need to go if we’re to find answers that matter. We don’t always have to travel that road immediately, but eventually we’ll need to circle back and explore what lies in that direction. I don’t want you to think my probing the sensitive areas reflects callousness on my part. If you ever feel hesitant about something, let me know. I’ll make a note to circle back another time.”

“Got it,” Andy said. He seemed unperturbed. If he was at all wounded by their last encounter, there was no obvious, or even subtle evidence of it. Anna chose to push forward.

“So,” she started, “To put it simply, you like... people, and your wife doesn’t. What did you mean by that?”

Andy just now realized he must have been in some sort of altered state when he made that comment. On the face of it, it certainly made his wife out to be psychotic or something. He paused a bit to find a delicate response.

“Let me be more clear... Anna. I love my wife. I couldn’t imagine a life without her. We’ve been married a long time, we have two beautiful kids, and she’s the center of everything I do. So... you’ll have to take my criticisms with a grain of salt, if you will, or maybe just keep it all in context.”

“Certainly,” Anna responded, not wanting to challenge what now seemed a clear attempt to hide something. “Please, go on.”

“Okay. Well, I guess what I was getting at is that she’s very protective of the status quo. She likes the way things are and doesn’t see a reason for change—any change. I, on the other hand, I’m less stressed by the idea.”

“Has there been a change?”

“Well, there was, but it’s just her way of looking at the world, I guess. She’s... I don’t know,”

Andy seemed at a loss for words and frustrated by the effort to keep trying. Anna sensed he might be avoiding an issue that he didn’t want to confront—at least not yet. She decided to let it go and circle back at some other time.

“Tell me, Andy, about your background, your home environment growing up, parents, siblings, that sort of thing. Paint me a picture.”

Andy’s conciliatory look became quizzical. He rubbed his hand through his hair and took a brief glance out the window but returned to meet Anna’s gaze. “Oh, the old Freudian mother-son thing? So, you think my problems are from some childhood scar? Like I’ve been harboring some demons from my parents?”

“Humor me.”

“I was expecting this type of interrogation last week. I have to say I was surprised when you just cut to the chase and delved right in. It freaked me out a bit in the end but looking back, it was refreshing, the surprise of it all, I mean.”

“Well, I’m glad I impressed you in our first session,” Anna said, “but I guess this ‘Interrogation’ is going in a different direction today.” She threw him a disarming smile to ensure he understood they were mutually jesting. “Do you think you can handle it?”

“Well... alright, let’s see where this goes. There’s not much to tell, really: a mom, dad, brother, no crisis issues to speak of, just a boring childhood.”

“Were you close with your brother?”

“Yeah, Dave and I were buds for most years growing up. By mid-teens, a three-year difference—he was a few years older—seemed like an eternity. Ninth grade versus twelfth is a big difference. He was driving and had a bigger circle of friends. We still got along but we didn’t share stories like we used to.”

“And your mom and dad?”

“They were cool. No issues I can remember.”

“How did they interact with each other,” Anna asked.

“Hmm… that’s kinda hard to say, from a kid’s perspective anyway.”

“Well, did they get along pretty easily, was it a happy marriage?”

“My dad was a funny guy, always finding the humor in a situation.”

“Situation?”

“Whenever things got stressed around the house. My parents didn’t argue much because my dad never let it happen. He always found a way to diffuse things. It wasn’t like he was shy or afraid to make a point; making a point was something he excelled at. Everything well thought out, almost like a lecture. But then he would end things with a joke or something witty.”

“And your mom, how did she cope with these... situations?”

“I guess... between the two, she was more the instigator, the one driving the ship. Most often, we did things her way,” Andy said. “I can say that, looking back on it, but in the moment—at the time, I never felt stress or any major conflict. I mean, I often saw my friends’ parents argue, so whatever happened at home seemed the same. It all felt normal to me at the time.” Andy seemed unfazed by the topic. He readjusted himself in the chair but kept eye contact. 

“I’m sure it was,” Anna responded. She intended to put Andy at ease. She wanted to connect the dots for him but didn’t want him getting defensive about a failed childhood.

“It’s never a perfect science,” she followed, “this thing about childhood experiences and how they affect our adult lives, but there may be connections between you and your wife and your mom and dad. You probably won’t find this too crazy, as I’m sure you may have thought of it yourself.”

“Well, this should be interesting.” Andy smiled nervously. “This is gonna answer all my problems then, huh?”

 “Well, probably not,” Anna said with half a smile, “more like just scratching the surface. There are some links between your father’s handling of stress and your current situation. So, what I hear you saying is that your father deflected stress by using humor. Whenever conflict arose, often because your mom had a strong personality, should we say, your dad chose to find a funny perspective and then just go along.”

“You’re not saying he’s a wimp?” Andy snapped back.

“No, not at all. Why he chose to handle those conflicts in the way he did may have been for good reasons. It may be, he knew something about your mom that he felt it best to choose that approach. Rather than being passive, you might consider his actions to be proactive. My point is, what you saw was your mom defining the terms of life and your dad passing it off as humor. He was non-confrontational. Sure, maybe he was running from the confrontation, but maybe, it never really stressed him, maybe these things just didn’t get under his skin. This is not a value judgement. It’s just what it was.”

Andy locked eyes with Anna with an unspoken expression of I’m not buying it.

“Okay, I hear you,” he finally said, “but I also never thought of my mom as bossy or pushy. I don’t see her that way.”

“I’m not surprised,” Anna said. “We rarely see our parents for who they are. If they don’t leave memorable scars, then we grow up passing it off as a normal simple family life. However, you did say your mom was more the instigator, which is an interesting choice of words. You may feel that was a random choice on your part, but things are never really random, at least not when it comes to therapy. I must at least conjecture, if not assume, that your mom had her way of doing things and somewhere along the line your dad decided it wasn’t worth the fight. He was, or is, a smart man and chose humor as a way to preserve his integrity, at least to himself. Why he chose not to fight it out with your mom on a daily basis is something you’d have to ask him, but it’s not really relevant to you and your wife.”

“This all sounds pie-in-the-sky kinda stuff. It feels like you’re reaching,” Andy said. He squirmed a bit in the chair, hoping he could change—something.

“It could be that I’m way off track. I am that other opinion you were seeking though,” Anna said. “Allow me to go on. You might be wondering how does this play into your current situation? Well, this is how I’d put it together. Your wife is somewhat like your mom—”

“What? Wait, wait a sec.” Andy’s near distracted look of willing disengagement was suddenly piqued. “What’s that you said? My mom and my wife are the same person? What the... What does that mean?” Andy mocked. “You’re saying I married my mom? Are you suggesting I’m a pervert or something?”

Anna smiled. She expected this response. No one wants their spouse compared to their parents. Its incestual implications are too close for comfort. None-the-less, Anna needed to reconcile a sticking issue; Andy was told to get therapy, he didn’t ask for it himself. There seemed to be a power struggle, or simply an imbalance of influence in their marriage. The similarity seemed too obvious to gloss over.

“The idea of mothers and wives, or for that matter, fathers and husbands, having commonality is not a shocking occurrence in psychology,” Anna explained. “People like familiarity. Whatever traits your mom has, you’re likely to be drawn to as an adult. It’s all subconscious, mind you, but it’s rather common. Some have conjectured that it allows us to solve the unresolved issues of our childhood. I’m not saying your wife is the wrong person for you, just that you have to find ways of relating to her that may be different than how you related to your mom.”

Andy sat forward on the edge of the chair, running his hand through his hair again, like a comb. The issue was getting complicated.

“So, your wife has her moments when she won’t budge on an issue. Maybe she’s not an ‘instigator’ the way your mom was, but there are times when she digs in and wants things her way. I suspect she’s a strong willed individual. The coping skills you learned from your dad was not to stress things. I don’t know if you use humor like your dad did, but I’d bet that not stressing the small stuff has allowed your wife to feel emboldened to fill the void. She’s more and more comfortable calling the shots. Only, something is not right anymore. Something or some list of things has been happening that you are refusing to let go of, to borrow your words. An important ‘life changing event’ as you said, that deserves not to be easily dismissed.” Anna was hoping that last line might prompt Andy to talk more about whatever the change was that caused the problem. “I’m guessing you’re a proud man and you’ve drawn a line in the sand. On some level, your morals won’t allow you to dismiss this one issue and your wife is not happy with you all of a sudden standing up to her. She’s hoping therapy will convince you that you don’t need to fight back so much. That maybe, you’ll go back to being easy-going.”

Silence blanketed the room. Andy’s look of curiosity changed when Anna mentioned that humor might be a tactic that he also employs to handle stress. A sinking feeling churned in his gut; his gaze turned away from Anna; he was lost in the glare of light streaking through the window.