Family Affair by Caprice Crane Page B

month-old
New Yorker
magazines. What, are they trying to keep us awake by keeping it cold, or does the therapist just like to avoid seeing his patients sweat? Brett’s nervously tapping his fingers on his lap.
    “Hi,” I say, trying to be civil—a grown-up. He’d already left the house when I woke up. It shocked me. I left a message on his cell phone telling him where to show up. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”
    “Of course,” he answers distractedly, as a door opens in front of us.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Foster,” the therapist says, as he gestures toward the empty room behind him. “Please, come in.”
    The first half hour is awkward. I imagine the first half hour with any new therapist is awkward, but our therapist has an enormous flesh-colored mole just slightly to the left side of his nose, and for some reason I can’t get past it. So while I make it seem like I’m making eye contact, I’m actually just trying not to stare at the mole. My eyes drift back and then dart away, and I put my hand on my chin and crinkle my eyes as if thinking,
You’ve got a really good point there
, but instead I’m thinking,
You’ve got a really big
mole
there
. How am I supposed to focus on fixing my relationship?
    The fact that I have no idea what is going on with Brett makes everything even more confusing. I try to get Brett to tell me what needs to change, because obviously he’s not happy, but he doesn’t offer anything. I explain away my stupid
real
first time with big-mouth Doug, and aside from the one comment Brett barks out about our whole relationship being based on a lie—a bit of an exaggeration, given how truly unimportant to me the encounter with Doug was—he’s not particularly combative. He just seems uninterested. At one point he actually asks the therapist, “You have a Chase branch next door. Do you know what time it closes?” Apparently, he’s more interested in his savings account than saving our marriage.
    Finally, when I bring up the whole seven-year-itch thing, he snaps. “This isn’t about other women, Layla.”
    “Then what?” I plead. “What is it?”
    “It’s
you
! It’s you … with my sister, you with my mom, you with my dad, you with my brother!” The therapist’s eyebrows rise.
    “There’s nothing going on with me and his brother,” I say. Then I add, “Or his dad. And for the record, the Doug thing was more than fifteen years ago—before I even kissed Brett.”
    The therapist writes something down on his yellow legal pad. I’m not sure why he’s taking notes, and I’m not sure how I feelabout it, but I’m hyperaware of the beads of sweat forming above my brow. Guess the air-conditioner trick didn’t work. “You’re not like a
wife
,” Brett blurts.
    “What do you mean by that?” the therapist asks, and I’m all ears because I think I’m a pretty damned good wife.
    “I mean that she’s all over my family. She’s very close with them. Too close. It’s like they all come first. Her relationship with them takes priority over our marriage. She’s partners with my sister, and shops with my mother, and plays card games with my father. I didn’t get married to have another sister.”
    “I’m hearing you feel neglected,” the therapist says.
    “This is helpful,” I add. “This at least lets me know what I’m dealing with. I know you don’t want a divorce. I know you’re frustrated, and I guess I understand. So okay, I’ll make changes. Trish and I have a successful business, so that’s not exactly going away, but I won’t play any more Rock Band on the Xbox with your brother. And I’ll cut down on the poker with your dad.”
    Brett just looks at his lap. One bead of sweat starts to make its way down my temple.
    “Okay, fine. I won’t spend so much time with your mom?”
    Still he says nothing.
    “Are you serious?” I ask. “Do you really want me to stop being partners with Trish?”
    “I didn’t say I want any of that,” Brett says, still not