Robyn Carr - The View From Alameda Island

“And what makes you think I have any influence?” Lauren said. “He argues with me constantly!”

“But somehow you always get through it!”

“No, somehow I always survive it,” she said. “I figured out how to live with him.”

Damn, it was true! She managed her husband. He didn’t love her, she didn’t love him and they’d done this dance for years! She had no idea what Brad’s stake was in the relationship—was it all to have a good housekeeper and hostess? Because they weren’t lovers. They weren’t confidants. They weren’t friends.

“You know, Cassidy, no matter what your father’s opinion is, who you live with or marry is up to you,” Lauren said.

“But he can make things pretty difficult when his opinion doesn’t match mine,” Cassie said.

“I know,” Lauren said, giving Cassie’s light brown hair a fond stroke. “I’m not looking forward to you moving so far away but I am looking forward to our time together.”

“Me, too,” Cassie said.

And I hope you choose more wisely than I did , she wanted to add.

But was every day a tragedy? Of course not. They’d had some good times together without being lovers, friends or confidants. They went to Italy last year and met some lovely couples they still kept in touch with. They went to St. Tropez every winter, sometimes taking the girls, and ran into the same people there, socializing like normal couples. Daily life was tolerable because they really didn’t see too much of each other unless the girls were around. Brad was very social and when he made plans, she went along and was very agreeable.

Then once or twice a week it went south and crushed her spirit. He’d remind her she came from nothing. He’d tell her she was delusional or that she fabricated stories to make herself look like a victim of his cruelty. He’d shout at her, demean her.

Pinch her.

Those pinches were possibly the most demeaning thing he did. Weighing everything about their relationship, she wanted to leave him just because of that. He’d zap out a hand and find a tender piece of flesh, her forearm or the back of her upper arm, grab with his long, strong fingers and twist. Sometimes she’d bruise.

The worst part was feeling she had to build a case. She suspected men could leave because they’d lost that loving feeling, but women? Women had to be abused, assaulted, held prisoner or otherwise severely victimized before it was all right for them to walk.

Lauren turned her thoughts back to Cassie. “Be patient, all right? If I sense a good time, I’ll tell him, but there’s no hurry. I can promise you he won’t be in Boston for moving day.”

* * *

Beau met Pamela in the waiting room of the marriage counselor’s office. She stood and gave him an affectionate little hug. He pulled away before she could embrace him, hold on to him.

“Well, I guess I got the message,” she said.

He just smiled at her. She was beautiful and looked sophisticated in her work suit. Only Pamela could make a work suit look so sexy. It didn’t exactly cross the line but it rushed right up to it—conservative jacket, low-cut silky blouse, straight skirt, slit up the thigh, heels that were at least three inches. The color was right for her and right for spring—pale coral. It set off her blond hair and blue eyes. The blond was not authentic and she wore colored contacts. That had never mattered to Beau. Women wanted to be pretty. He understood that. He didn’t even mind that she liked being sexy and pretty for men. Depending on your self-confidence, that could make a husband feel a little puffed up and proud.

Sometimes Pam took it over the edge.

She barely resembled the young jeans-clad single mother, struggling with two rambunctious little boys, living in a one-bedroom apartment and keeping an old car running on meager support from their fathers and food stamps. Sometimes he missed that girl. She was holding it together somehow.

“We’ve talked about this, Pam,” he said. “I will be happy to explain my feelings to the therapist. He seems like a nice enough guy.”

She sniffed in a breath through her nose and stiffened. “I’m hoping he can help put us back together. Aren’t you?”

Beau didn’t answer. He gave a small, melancholy smile and stuck his hands in his pockets. Then he looked at his watch. “You have to be somewhere?” she asked tartly.

“I have appointments this afternoon, but I have some time now,” Beau said.

“Why are you so distant?” she asked. “We had such a successful weekend, Drew’s party, the whole family together for once... I really felt we were making great progress!”

“It was a nice weekend, wasn’t it? Drew really appreciated it. He’s also glad it’s over so he can get on with his life. He’s ready for the next chapter.”

“I can feel you pulling away...”

Only Pamela. How many times did she have to call a time-out before it was truly over? She moved into a sublet flat in the city, took a ten-day vacation to Maui, did a little traveling for work, plastered pictures of her fun times all over her Facebook page, but now she was done and wanted a smooth return to her base. There seemed to be one man’s face in many of the photos, including what looked like a partial profile of him in Maui. He must have left.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. And then thankfully the door opened.

“Come on in folks,” George said. “I hope everyone had a good week.”

“A very good week,” Beau said.

“Before we get started, anything I should know?” George asked.

“Yes,” Beau said. “I’m afraid I’m not going to continue with this counseling,” he said.

“He has someone,” Pamela said.

“I don’t,” Beau said. “I wouldn’t mind, though. I thought it would be decent of me to give this a chance, but I just can’t work up the enthusiasm. This is the fourth separation and you’re our seventh counselor. Just by the numbers, we’re probably done. No criticism of you, George. I’m sure you’re one of the best.”

Pam put her hands over her face and began to cry.

“Pam, you should stay,” Beau said. “Really. I think you want to end this phase in your life, this marriage, and find some new direction. But I’m not it. If we got back together now it would be nice for a few months and then tense, then difficult for a long time until you decided it was too difficult, then we’d have another time-out. It’s your pattern and I’m done.”

She broke into loud wails.

“Aw, Jesus,” Beau said.

“What brought this on right now, if you don’t mind me asking,” George said.

“I don’t mind at all,” Beau said. “I have a good friend who is also a counselor. I was talking with him about going to counseling for a marriage I don’t want anymore and he suggested I be more honest about my feelings. Look, no offense intended, but Pamela doesn’t want to be married. At least not to me. It’s usually more about another man...”

“It is not!” she spat.

“Yeah, it usually is,” Beau said. “And I don’t even care. Just let us end it.”

“Then you’ll have to move out of my house!” she said emphatically.

“Folks, these are not the kind of things negotiated in therapy, but if you want to dissolve the marriage, I can help with the emotional part,” George said.

“Then help Pam with the emotional part,” Beau said, standing up. “I’d say Pam has some doubt about us staying married—we’ve done this too many times. I’m going to call it.”

“The counselor he talked to is a priest !” she shouted.

Beau just shrugged. “He didn’t quote me scriptures,” Beau said. “He’s just a friend. But he does a lot of counseling. Look, I should stop wasting your time and Pam’s. I’m not going to have a fifth separation. The boys are adults now. They still need parents. They’ll always need parents—”