There’s a moment of silence. I watch their confused expressions morph as they get my underlying meaning. Matthew half rises from his seat, immediately on the defensive. “What the—!”
“Matthew’s addicted to that popcorn!” Marissa says. “But how—”
“Most therapists only know what you tell them,” I say. “Even if you try to be one hundred percent honest, you create an illusion based on your perceptions and unconscious biases. I need to access who you are when I’m not around in order to learn the truth, and for our work together to be effective.”
Clients understand they’re in for something different when they come to see me. But they don’t realize the full scope until they learn I’ll be scrutinizing their lives on my own time and on my own terms. Some of them terminate our contract on the spot. But most stay; sometimes even the ones I least expect.
Matthew’s a private man. Unlike his wife, he leaves almost no footprint on social media. His body language is resistant; his arms are now folded across his chest.
This might be too much for him.
What’s more interesting to me, though, is that Marissa’s body has also stiffened. She’s the public one, with her charity meetings and boutique located on a busy stretch of Connecticut Avenue and annual Halloween bash at their home, which is always transformed into an elaborate haunted house.
Matthew sinks back into his seat. His anger flares quickly, but his control over it is impressive. “I’ve had a lot of time to think these past couple of days. I’m not sure I can truly forgive Marissa. But I want to give it a try. So, I’m on board with this. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Gratitude crashes across Marissa’s face. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“Let’s talk about your families,” I direct them. “Matthew, you mentioned in our first session that your mother died as a result of leukemia a few years ago. How was your parents’ marriage before then?”
Matthew exhales. “Let’s put it this way: I’m nothing like my father and I made sure to marry a woman who was nothing like my mother.”
Marissa looks at her husband with wide eyes, almost as if he is dropping bread crumbs that lead to a place she has not been before.
“I have no idea why—or how—they stayed together.” Matthew shakes his head. “They were toxic. If my father decided to get out the barbecue and grill some steaks, that would be the night my mother proclaimed she no longer ate red meat. If my mother bought my father a nice shirt for Christmas—she hated the clothes he wore, so she was making a point with the gift—he’d return it.”
Matthew gives a half laugh containing no mirth. “My father probably would have liked to throw away the shirt, but he was too cheap for that.”
“Cheap?” I echo. Matthew has succeeded in diverging from his father in at least this respect, given the opulence of his home.
“He only buys used cars, and after my mom died, he sold their house and moved into a one-bedroom condo downtown. He drinks Cluny and soda—” At my puzzled look, Matthew elaborates, “It’s an inexpensive kind of Scotch. And his favorite restaurants are diners.”
I take down a note. “Is your father remarried?”
“Yeah, to his work,” Matthew says. “He’s a lobbyist. That’s pretty much all he cares about.”
“He’s good to Bennett,” Marissa ventures.
“I’ll give him that. It’s the only reason my dad is still in my life.”
I nod. “You mentioned you have a sister.”
“Yeah, Catherine—we all call her Kiki. My dad was easier on her because she’s a girl, but she didn’t like being in our family any better than me. She moved to Colorado for college and never came back.”
I wait for him to continue, but it seems as if he can’t.
“Marissa’s parents are still in love after forty years,” Matthew says, adeptly redirecting the course of the conversation.
“Is that how you see it, Marissa?” I ask.
“Yes. They’re like newlyweds. Still holding hands when they go on their early-morning walks.”
“Do you see them often?”
“Every month or two. My parents live near a town called Chesapeake—it’s about two hours away. My younger brother and his wife work with them running a gourmet food store. My parents come and stay with Bennett whenever Matthew and I travel, and we always visit them for a few days around Christmas, too.”
“But,” I prompt, because it’s obvious there is one.
“The life I live, it’s different.” She gestures around the room, the sweep of her hand taking in the twelve-foot ceilings and grand stone fireplace and exposed beams, as well as all the fancy store-bought items within it. “My brother and his wife own one old truck, and they’ve never traveled out of the country. Same with my parents. They work really hard, and they don’t have much to show for it.”
“Does that make you uncomfortable?” I’m asking the obvious, because her body language tells me it does.
She begins to answer, but before she can say more, simultaneous chimes sound on the Bishops’ phones. They both reflexively look down, then toward their front door.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Marissa asks her husband.
He shakes his head. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Is this something you set up?”
I didn’t engineer this unexpected interruption, though it is the type of thing I might have done.
“Maybe the Girl Scouts are working overtime tonight,” Matthew quips as he stands up and strides out of the room.
I look down at the name circled on my notepad. “What makes you think Natalie has a crush on Matthew?”
“Oh, it’s just a feeling.” Marissa frowns. “She calls to ask him for business advice sometimes, even though they’re in completely different fields. She’s a real estate agent. And she took him to lunch to thank him for writing a recommendation so her daughter could attend the same private school as Bennett—even though my name was on the recommendation, too. I see her sidle up to him at school functions and laugh too hard at his jokes.”
I don’t doubt Marissa’s assessment. Women generally have good intuition about these things. And I’ve now got enough clues to track Natalie down without having to ask for her contact information, which would signal my intentions to the Bishops.
If Marissa strayed because of the distance in her marriage, perhaps Matthew helped create that space by reveling in the attention of another woman.
Matthew seems to have come around to the idea of therapy quickly. Too quickly?
I tuck away the thought to ponder later.
Matthew still hasn’t returned. Marissa keeps looking in the direction of the front door, but it’s several rooms away, and her view is blocked. Her fingers begin to worry the tassel on a throw pillow.
“Natalie is trouble,” I tell Marissa in a low voice. “Don’t give Matthew the opportunity to be alone with her. I know he wants to repair things, but he’s vulnerable now.”
“Vulnerable? That’s not a word I’d ever use to describe Matthew.”
An echo of my unspoken question from our first session rises in my mind: Is she scared of losing her husband or scared of him?