Cam rolls her eyes. “One thing at a time, Dad.”
Dad looks at me. “What about you? I’m not getting any younger, and I want to be the kind of grandpa who wrestles with his grandkids.”
“I’ll talk to Gabriel about it,” I answer, crunching through an ice cube. I’m trying damn hard to be flippant, as if the idea doesn’t feel like a hot knife in my heart.
“You’ll have to do more than talk if you want to give me grandkids.”
I pretend to vomit. “Please don’t say that ever again.”
He whispers something in Camryn’s ear, then excuses himself to the restroom.
“What did he say to you?”
“He called you a prude.”
I look up at the ceiling and shake my head.
“Did something happen in St. Lucia?” Cam’s tone is uncharacteristically gentle.
If I was going to tell anybody, it’d be her. Even so, I can’t bring myself to do that. I am consumed with managing Gabriel’s image, of the face we present to the world. And so, even to the person who knows me best, I say, “Everything was great.”
I’m lying to her, but the person I’m lying to most is myself.
I’ve placed Gabriel on a pedestal he didn’t ask to be on, and now I’m experiencing his fall. I won’t tell him what he’s doing is hurting me, because I’m protecting him from my anger.
My dad rejoins us, settling into his seat and pressing a flattened palm on his thigh as he leans forward. Something about this familiar mannerism pushes at me, and I’m struck by a realization I don’t like.
Gabriel is not the first man I’ve protected from my feelings, even when he deserved them.
I have done all this before.
SESSION FOURTEEN
DESERT FLOWER THERAPY
“You lied to your family about Gabriel.” Dr. Ruben taps his chin as he assesses me.
“By then, I was lying all the damn time.” I shrug, not because I don’t care, but becausewhat does it matter?
“You stayed with him.”
“I loved him. And he was still Gabriel, you know? He maintained a job and our home, he mowed the lawn, paid bills. A bystander would’ve had a difficult time peering in and seeing his problem.” I clear my throat. I feel foolish now, thinking back to what I ignored, and explained away. “I read a story about a woman whose husband was abusive, but only when he drank. She stayed for a long time, because they had kids and the abuse was infrequent. After I read it, I remember thinking everything was ok in my marriage, because my husband wasn’t hitting me.”
“Comparative suffering.”
“Exactly. I did that a lot. I sought out stories that were worse than mine, then told myself I didn’t have anything to complain about.”
“Did he drink at home?”
“Not that I knew of, in excess at least, but I don’t think that means much. Our schedules made it so we weren’t home at the same time as often as some couples.”
“What did you do during all the time you were alone?”
“I read a lot of books.”
Dr. Ruben’s gaze sweeps over my face. The mask of detachment he usually wears has slipped. He looks like I feel.
We have arrived at the final part of my story.
