Tunnel of Love Pt. 02

Then the lights go out and it's just the three of us
You, me, and all that stuff we're so scared of

CHAPTER FOUR: Hearts in Darkness

In the film Apocalypse Now,the protagonist (an army captain played by Martin Sheen) waits in a Saigon hotel for a new mission. Two men arrive via the stairs, bringing him one—"like room service," Sheen narrates. "It was a real choice mission," he continues, "and when it was over...I'd never want another."

Dr. Gayle Seymour sat in her office, preparing for her next and last appointment of the night. After more than twenty years in training or in practice as a therapist—specializing in relationship counseling—she felt she'd seen it all. She was getting a little bored with her job.

Maybe more than a little. The stories are all the same. The names change, the faces change—no, even the faces all seem the same now.

She still found satisfaction in helping people. She just hadn't had an interesting challenge in a while. Sure, depending upon the personalities involved, her work could be difficult, but it had become a tedious kind of difficult. She longed for something new.

Something not cast in the usual molds. Something that would engage me. Not just a case; more like...a mission.

Boredom was not her main problem, however. In fact, it was probably good for her. No, her main problem was...

No. Don't think about it at the office. Keep it contained to home.

Dr. Seymour's newest clients were coming up the stairs for their first appointment. She did not know it yet, but they were bringing her a real choice case. And when it was over...

* * *

The husband stood to the side of the doorway, allowing the wife to enter the office first. Dr. Seymour took notice. She noticed everything.

Chivalrous. That's good—mostly. But it seemed reflexive, out of habit. He didn't look at her as she passed by him.

"Welcome," Dr. Seymour said, shaking their hands. "Jennifer, I presume...and Mike. Please sit down."

As Dr. Seymour returned to her chair, the wife hesitated. One of the chairs was closer to the counselor than the other. The wife chose the closer one.

She wants help. Good; but she's not the one I'm most concerned about, it's him. He made the appointment, and he was damn thorough in vetting me. Experience tells me...he's not the one who screwed something up.

"So," she told them, "I understand you were looking for counseling, and chose me. I'm very flattered! Now, the main goal of this first session is for me to get to know you a little. Hopefully, that will help when we get to talking about...well, I sometimes call it 'tough stuff.' But let's not worry much about tough stuff just yet, okay?"

The man and woman nodded, somewhat blankly.

Same old same old. They're unsure how this is going to go. They're hoping for a fast resolution of their problems, but they're not eager to face the problems.

Dr. Seymour spent most of the session asking basic questions about the couple's background, their jobs, their home, and their son. By the end of the session, Dr. Seymour felt she had a pretty good sketch of their lives prior to what had brought them to her. Disappointingly, there were many elements that fit the usual molds.

Married for twelve years, with a child for ten years. Jobs wear them down and stress them out. "Spare time" is consumed by child care, managing property and finances, and trying to stay fit. Not much "couple time," and it becomes routine. Then something slips...

Still, some of the standard ingredients seemed to be missing. Dr. Seymour was intrigued; maybe this case would offer more than met the eye. She resolved not to pre-judge it.

"OK, we have some time left. I promised you we wouldn't jump into the tough stuff right away, but I would like to know something about your current situation. Not the 'what happened'—we'll get to that another time—but the 'what's happening.'"

Kind of vague, I know. But let's see where they go with it.

The wife spoke first. "Um...well, since..." was all she could get out before breaking down in tears. The husband's body language initially telegraphed sympathy; but after a split-second, he looked away from her and straightened his back.

Conflicted, aren't we?

As the wife struggled to compose herself, the husband spoke up. His voice was steady but slow. His tone was resigned.

"I'm sleeping in the spare bedroom. That probably tells you a lot."

It tells me you're having serious problems. Figured that one out from the fact that you're here! But the 'spare bedroom' thing suggests that you're open to reconciliation. No one has moved out...or been kicked out...yet.

"Does your son know that's where you're sleeping?"

"Yeah, Mikey figured it out, so we told him...I told him...that I've been snoring a lot, and Mommy can't sleep so we're sleeping in different rooms until I can get some help. Actually, there's some truth to the snoring bit, so I don't feel like I'm completely lying to him."

If you care so much for honesty that you find telling a little white lie to a child difficult...let's hope no one's told any whoppers to you!

"What's mealtime like?"

"We have dinner together," the husband answered. "It can be...uncomfortable for me, but it's important."

"Child care?"

They started to speak at the same time. The husband deferred to the wife. She spoke haltingly.

"We...well, we've always split the homework. Also, Mike does a lot of things with Mikey on Saturdays, as always. One thing that's changed is...well, I used to go the gym..."

She paused, seeming to be fighting back tears.

"Um, go to the gym after work twice a week and Mike would pick up Mikey from school. But now, I'm not going to the gym, so I get Mikey pretty much every day, except some Fridays. Mike...well, he..."

The husband interjected. "I've been staying a little later at work most days, but I make an effort to get off early on Fridays if I can and spend time with Mikey and his friends at the school. He really enjoys it."

Obvious, so obvious. The child is holding them together—holding him together, at least. Maybe this is just the same old same old, after all. Some good signs, though—maybe I can help them.

"Communication?"

The wife responded. "It's...better than it was at first. But it's still so different. "So...formal. Businesslike."

She gasped at what she'd said.

"I'm sorry!" she said, looking at the husband. "You're trying, I—"

There was something in his face that the wife couldn't bear to watch. She addressed Dr. Seymour again.

"I know he's trying to keep things...calm...after what happened. I know I was the one who messed up, I just haven't been able to explain..."

Tears were flowing again now, but Dr. Seymour was not watching the wife. Surreptitiously, while taking notes, she was watching the husband.

He's playing the strong, silent type, but his body language gives him away. There's a lot of emotion underneath that exterior. He doesn't like to see her suffering, but he's suffering too, and comforting her would seem tantamount to conceding something.

"That night...after I found out," he spoke, "we started, but...well, Mikey woke up...then, for a few days, there just wasn't a good time...I mean, how do you...what do you...do you just sit down at the kitchen table and..."

The wife was watching him closely, trying to stay composed but losing the battle. Her hand was poised to reach out to him, but it just sort of fluttered with indecision.

The husband was losing the battle too. His voice had cracked at the end of his last remark. His eyes were moist.

"I decided..." he finally continued, gathering himself. "I said to her, 'Not in the house.' Not in Mikey's home. We can't risk him overhearing something, seeing someone...upset. That first night, I started to get angry and..."

Another long pause.

"Anyway, I said 'not in the house.' Plus, I just don't...I mean, I think if we're going to get through this, we have to...isolate it somehow. That's part of why I wanted this...this counseling. I know we have to talk, and we have to do it somewhere, just not in the house, and where else...?"

OK, that's enough tough stuff for now. Time's up, anyway.

"All right, we'll break there. It's a huge step you've taken, to seek help. Here's what I want to do: I'd like to get the lay of the land better. Next week, I'd like to meet just with Mike. Then, the week after, just with Jennifer. Usually we'll all meet together, but maybe not always."

The husband looked surprised and perhaps perturbed.

He doesn't understand why he should be first. He thinks I'm picking on him. Why, he thinks, when he's not the problem? Well Mike, maybe you're not the problem, but you are the patient—one of them, at least, and maybe the one that needs the most help.

The wife looked nervous.

She's afraid of what questions might be coming. Afraid to be judged. Afraid that things might get worse before they get better.

She might be right.

"Mike, I'll see you next week. Jennifer, in two weeks. Again, thank you for the privilege of helping you. Good night."

After they left, Dr. Seymour looked out her office window, which oversaw the parking lot. She hadn't meant to look for the couple; she just hadn't seen the outside world for many hours and wanted a peek. But as it happened, she did see the husband and wife come out of the building and get into their cars.

Cars—plural! They mentioned that they were both at home before their appointment. Still, they came here in separate cars!

* * *

At home that evening, Gayle (no longer "Dr. Seymour") fought her nightly battle...and suffered her nightly defeat.

She was good at getting inside other people's heads. That skill had brought her professional success. Unfortunately, she was not so good at getting back out of other people's heads when the work day was done. That difficulty had brought her a lot of misery.

Like many therapists, Gayle had her own therapist. For a while, that is, but it hadn't helped. Despite her own therapy, Gayle's cases continued to get to her. Her husband (now ex-husband) had cited that as one of the reasons for their divorce, years ago.

After the divorce, Gayle's difficulty with disengaging from her clients' lives brought on an obsession.

Almost every one of her cases involved, to some degree, sexual issues. After years of experiencing those issues vicariously—and perhaps because of some issues in her own life—Gayle had become obsessed with sex. Not sex acts, per se, but the psychology of sex.

She tried to pass off her growing obsession with sex as purely professional, but she never really fooled herself. Gayle got off on her explorations of sexual motivations, situations, and emotions. After a while, she surrendered to it, accepting it for what it was.

At its height, her obsession had blended dangerously with her tendency to bring work home with her. Eventually, the flow reversed, and her nightly mental escapades threatened to affect her work. She thought about quitting, but with little except her work in her life, she did what she had to do to hold onto it.

She set up a firewall between home and the office. At the office, she was the pure analyst, focused on her clients but detached. Once home, her clients ceased to exist.

To fill the void, she became an avid reader of erotica. First, it was mostly erotica that could be found in print. Then she discovered the world of online erotica...and fell into it.

Though she read widely, she found herself drawn to stories involving adultery --not surprising, she told herself, given her line of work. She also had a thing for non-consensual or reluctant sex, sometimes even a little softcore BDSM or mind control—it was something about the power dynamics, she assumed. She even started reading lesbian stories while treating a husband and wife whose relationship had been strained by the wife's affair with a female lover—but her interest in such stories were not purely academic.

Recently, Gayle had tried to quit reading so much. Every night, on her way home, she would swear that after dinner, she would do something else at her computer—or leave the computer off. Also, she'd swear she would not rely on an orgasm (or several) to put her to sleep. Tonight, after her appointment with the Chanceys, Gayle made the same resolutions.

Tonight, once again, she broke them. She spent an hour at her computer with her hand between her legs, teasing herself. Then, with all the stress of the day gone and her sexual batteries at peak charge, she retired to bed. She brought herself to two climaxes, one with the help of a toy.

Like every night, she rebuked herself. Tomorrow, she declared, would be different. Still, she consoled herself, she was doing better than before! Reading other people's fantasies was safer than creating her own, especially when her fantasies had been built around things...confidences...her clients had told her.

Or worse, built around the clients themselves.

* * *

"Hello, Mike, welcome back."

"Hello, Doctor. Are you surprised to see me?"

"No. It does happen sometimes—people quit after the first session. But something told me you're not a quitter, Mike. I knew you'd be back."

"Yeah, well," he said softly, while sitting down. "If there's any chance...but I have to tell you, I just don't know..."

He shook his head and took a deep breath.

"So, you wanted to see me first?"

"That's right, and you're probably wondering why."

"Yes," he indicated, not with words but with a shrug and a nod.

"Mike, last time Jennifer said she's the one who messed up. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"That's why I want to talk to you first. While it may seem odd to you, it's the way I do this. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And I need to tell you something up front. Whether or not the two of you get passed this is probably going to be up to you."

Mike looked uncomfortable. She continued.

"That's not to say that I'm going to let Jennifer off easy—far from it! And it's not to say that I'm positive that Jennifer's going to give you an opportunity to get past this. I have no idea yet what your situation is or whether it's salvageable. I'm just saying that if I can help Jennifer—and I probably can—then an opportunity may come. At that point, it's going to be up to you."

Mike's eyes fluttered around the room.

He's used to looking people square in the eye and saying what he has to say. But nothing in his life has prepared him for this situation. It's taxing his self-discipline to the utmost.

"I've made my decision, don't worry," he finally said.

"Yes, I know, Mike. You've decided to tough it out, for your son's sake. That was obvious, last time. I'm talking about something different."

"Yeah...I understand. I'm sorry, I'll try not to shoot the messenger. I know you're very good at what you do. I'll try to listen to what you say."

"Then you're a step ahead of most men who sit in that chair at this stage. Usually, they just want blame assigned and punishment meted out. Are you looking for more than that?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Ready for some tough stuff?"

"Probably not...but shoot."

"Okay...Why are you here?"

After a long pause, Mike answered.

"I don't know what happened, exactly. That's part of the problem. I know a few things that I found out myself and there are a few things she told me. I just don't know if I have the whole story. And like I said last week, trying to talk more about it at home...no way. I can't let it...infect that environment."

Another long pause. Gayle prompted him to continue.

"Okay, let's start with what you found out on your own."

Mike sighed deeply, then told her about that terrible Sunday ("Black Sunday," he'd come to think of it). The telephone call from Susan Miller. The card and the drawings from the hospital. The visit to the hospital. Then, the crushing intuition and discovery at the gym.

Finally, the look on Jennifer's face. The look even before he said...the name. The look that confirmed everything he suspected. The look that meant life, as he knew it, was over.

Dr. Seymour was intrigued. She'd heard so many infidelity stories, but this one had something odd about it. Once again, she thought this new case might be different.

"So, what did Jennifer say when you confronted her?"

"Well, as I told you last session...it wasn't exactly a good conversation. And honestly, I don't remember the whole sequence of events. I wasn't...in my right mind. But by the time we called it a night, here's what she'd said.

"She told me she met him at the gym. She said one day when they were talking, he mentioned he was a volunteer at a hospital. She said...she said he invited her to go with her one night, and she said 'yes'.

"And that's how it went...for weeks. She saw him at the gym twice a week. She met him at the hospital on Friday nights. Then came a night when one of the kids died."

Mike's voice—already strained from the beginning—was now breaking up. He was breathing sharply and irregularly, as if his airways were constricted. Dr. Seymour offered him a glass of water. He took a drink and continued.

"So...that night, she got to the hospital and was told that this kid had died. She was devastated. I can believe it...you have to know Jennifer, how much she loves kids. And there's the thing with her sister..."

Yes, she mentioned that briefly last time. Have to ask her more about that.

"Anyway, I already knew about the kid. I was there, of course, when she came home that night. We talked about it the next day. What I didn't know, of course, was...damn it."

His voice cracked. He took another drink. While putting the glass down, he suddenly halted and stared at it. He looked like he wanted to throw it.

"A drink...oh god, she said...she said they left the hospital and went for a drink. She said she broke down, and he...oh fuck...um, sorry..."

Dr. Seymour shook her head dismissively.

"Um, she said he...comforted her...that they were hugging, and...and..."

Frustrated—by what Jennifer had done, or his inability to spit it out, or maybe both—Mike slammed his thigh with a tightly curled fist. He looked down, seemingly amazed at how hard he'd hit himself. Relaxing his fist, he slowly continued, his voice barely a whisper.

"She said it got a little physical. She said there was...some touching. And some...kissing."

Mike closed his eyes. He seemed to hold his breath. After what seemed like nearly a minute, he finally let it out with a gasp.

"But then, she said, she came to her senses. She...how did she put it? She 'remembered' me. Something about our wedding vows. So she stopped it...stopped it from going farther. She got up and left. And she hasn't seen him since."

The basic elements of the tale weren't much compared to others that Dr. Seymour had heard. But there was something about the way Mike told it, something about the context for it, the impression of the couple that she'd gotten at the first session...

"Do you believe her?" Dr. Seymour asked.

"About not seeing him? Yes, but only...only because she's been with me or Mikey, the whole time. She quit the gym. She quit the hospital. Between working and taking care of Mikey, she doesn't have time to...sneak around..."

"Not anymore," he added quietly, with a sudden burst of venom.

Another pause, then another question.

"That's all she told you, Mike?"

"Well, pretty much...I mean, there were variations on it, repetitions...like I said, it wasn't a normal conversation. It wasn't like you and me talking here now. It wasn't, 'How was your day?' 'Mmmm, I ran into this hot guy, and...'"

He arrested the sarcasm, but she could tell there was plenty more he was holding back.