The Terminal Experiment

The couch consisted of three large cushions. Peter was sitting on the leftmost. Cathy sat on the border between the middle one and the rightmost, again trying for both closeness and distance simultaneously.

They sat together for a long time, saying nothing.

Peter kept moving his head slowly back and forth. He felt warm. His eyes weren’t focusing properly. Not enough sleep, he guessed. But then, suddenly, he realized that he was about to start crying. He took a deep breath, trying to forestall it. He remembered the last time he’d really cried: he’d been twelve years old. He’d been ashamed then, thinking he was too old to cry, but he’d had a frightening shock from an electrical outlet. In the thirty intervening years, he’d maintained his stoic face no matter what, but now, welling up within him…

He had to leave, get somewhere private, away from Cathy, away from everyone…

But it was too late. His body convulsed. His cheeks were wet. He found himself shuddering again and again. Cathy raised a hand from her lap, as if to touch him, but apparently thought better. Peter cried for several minutes. One fat drop fell on the edge of the Spenser paperback and was slowly absorbed into the newsprint.

Peter wanted to stop, but couldn’t. It just came and came. His nose was running now; he snorted between the shuddering convulsions that brought out the tears. It had been too much, held in too long. Finally, he was able to force out a few feeble, quiet words. “You’ve hurt me,” was all he said.

Cathy was biting her lower lip. She nodded slightly, her eyes batting up and down, holding in her own tears. “I know.”

CHAPTER 7

“Hello,” said the slim black woman. “Welcome to the Family Service Association. I’m Danita Crewson. Do you prefer Catherine or Cathy?” She had short hair and was dressed in a beige jacket and matching skirt, and wore a couple of pieces of simple gold jewelry — the perfect image of a modern professional woman.

Still, Cathy was slightly taken aback. Danita Crewson looked to be all of twenty-four. Cathy had expected the counselor to be old and infinitely wise, not someone seventeen years her junior. “Cathy is fine. Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice.”

“No problem, Cathy. Did you fill out the needs assessment?”

Cathy handed her the clipboard. “Yes. Money is no problem; I can pay the full fee.”

Danita smiled as if this was something she heard all too infrequently. “Wonderful.” When she smiled, no wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. Cathy was envious. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

Cathy tried to compose herself. She’d been tortured for months by what she’d done. God, she thought. How could I have been so stupid? But, somehow, it wasn’t until she actually saw Peter cry that she realized she had to do something to get help. She couldn’t bear to hurt him like that again. Cathy folded her hands on her lap and said, very slowly, “I, ah, cheated on my husband.”

“I see,” said Danita, her tone one of professional detachment, free of any judgment. “Does he know?”

“Yes. I told him.” Cathy sighed. “It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.”

“How did he take it?”

“He was devastated. I’ve never seen him so shaken.”

“Did he get angry?”

“He was furious. But he was also very sad.”

“Did he hit you?”

“What? No. No, he’s not an abusive husband — not at all.”

“Neither physically nor verbally?”

“That’s right. He’s always been very good to me.”

“But you cheated on him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now that you’ve told your husband,” said Danita, “how do you feel?”

Cathy thought for a moment, then shrugged slightly. “Better. Worse. I don’t know.”

“Did you expect your husband to forgive you?”

“No,” said Cathy. “No, trust is very important to Peter — and to me. I … I expected our marriage to be over.”

“And is it?”

Cathy looked out the window. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“No — absolutely not. But — but I want Peter to be happy. He deserves better.”

Danita nodded. “Did he tell you that?”

“No, of course not. But it’s true.”

“True that he deserves better?”

Cathy nodded.

“You seem to be a fine person. Why would you say that?”

Cathy said nothing.

Danita leaned back in her chair. “Has your marriage always been good?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Never any separations or anything like that?”

“No — well, we broke up once while we were dating.”

“Oh? Why?”

A small shrug. “I’m not sure. We’d been dating for close to a year while still in university. Then one day, I just broke up with him.”

“And you don’t know why?”

Cathy looked out the window again, as if drawing power from the sunlight. She closed her eyes. “I guess … I don’t know, guess I couldn’t believe anyone could love me so unconditionally.”

“And so you pushed him away?”

She nodded slowly. “I guess so.”

“Are you pushing him away again? Is that what your infidelity is about, Cathy?”

“Maybe,” she said slowly. “Maybe.”

Danita leaned slightly forward. “Why do you think no one could love you?” she said.

“I don’t know. I mean, I know Peter loves me. We’ve been together for a long time, and that’s been the one absolute constant in my life. I know it. But, still, even after all these years, I have trouble believing it.”

“Why?”

An infinitesimal lifting of shoulders. “Because of who I am.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m — I’m nothing. Nothing special.”

Danita steepled her fingers. “It sounds like you’re not very confident.”

Cathy considered this. “I guess I’m not.”

“But you say you went to university?”

“Oh, yes. I made the dean’s list.”

“And your job — do you do well at that?”

“I guess. I’ve been promoted several times. But it’s not a hard job.”

“Still, it sounds like you’ve done just fine over the years.”

“I suppose,” said Cathy. “But none of that matters.”

Danita raised her eyebrows. “What’s your definition of something that matters?”

“I don’t know. Something people notice.”

“Something which people notice?”

“Just people.”