Excerpt from The Never Never Sisters by L. Alison
Heller (NAL trade paperback, 6/14)
Prologue
The first thing I do is offer them candy. I keep a jar of
it, well-stocked, right there on the coffee table.
In my experience, people are one hundred percent less
likely to tell a lie with a Hershey’s Kiss tucked into the side of their mouth.
So while they’re unwrapping their chocolate or caramel or whatever, I lob the
easy questions at them: How long have they been together? Do they have any
kids?
And then, once they’ve relaxed a little, settled into the
beige couch across from my blue chair, I probe: What do they want out of our
meeting? If I sense from one of them a certain reticence, as I did that Tuesday
morning, I repeat the question.
I’ve found it helpful, when pressing for the truth, to lean
forward and hold eye contact. So I employed this method as I posed the question
once more to both Scott Jacoby and his wife, Helene.
“What. Do. You. Want?”
Helene—a tiny feminine woman with the brash voice of a New
York City traffic cop—stared back at me with an electric gaze. “To save our
marriage.”
I’m not sure how I developed this particular niche, but
usually the couples who I meet with in counseling sessions aren’t in need of
mere tune-ups. No one asks me for tips on how to stoke an already ignited
passion or to help mediate a dispute so that both parties feel sufficiently
heard. My clients come to me in full-on crisis mode, swinging from the broken
rope bridge of their marriage—the point at which they’ll either let go into
free fall or scramble to safety.
Scott was still silent, his arms crossed over his navy suit
jacket. I hadn’t yet determined whether he was annoyed at having to leave work
in the middle of the day or if his body language was a symptom of greater
marital fatigue.
He stared across the room in the direction of the photo I’d
hung on the wall. It was a picture from my wedding two years before, not that
my clients could tell this, because it was of our midsections and taken from
the back: my white silk veil, the dark block of my husband Dave’s tux, our
interlocking forearms. I hoped it was generic enough that people would see in
it their own happier times, but Scott’s unfocused eyes indicated that he wasn’t
envisioning anything so hopeful.
“What do you really want, Scott?”
Waiting for his response, Helene leaned so far forward in
her chair that she appeared to be praying. I’ve seen a lot of heartache in my office,
but it took my breath away—those troubled eyes in the middle of that frozen,
perfectly made-up face.
“Scott?” My voice was as gentle as it could be.
Finally, Scott sighed, then rubbed his cheek with his right
hand. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Okay.” I took care to sound appropriately neutral. “Take
some time. Try to think about it.” I pushed the candy jar toward him. It should
be said that I buy only the good stuff: Hershey’s Kisses, Werther’s, Reese’s
Minis—none of those nubby little mints or hard candies with wrappers in the
image of strawberries to help you associate the flavor.
Although I know better than to take it personally whether my
clients’ marriages work or not . . . I can’t help myself. I take
it all very personally.
Dave had pointed out the irony of this when I came home one
day and declared I was a failure. (I was right on that count; the Guinetts did
not make it.) “You ask them what they want, right?”
“Yes.” He’d left out the second part, the “why,” so I
reminded him. “It’s like an oral contract. They commit to wanting the marriage to
work in that initial moment and it’s helpful later, when things get tough.”
“But if you keep having to remind them what they want, how
do you know it’s still truly what they want?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I had said. “It’s a very
intimate environment in my office.” I didn’t have a good response right then,
but two days later, when I heard his key in the lock, I met him at the door
with a spatula. “Listen,” I said.
He’d stepped back, out of the range of the spatula, which
had dripped marinara sauce in a large splotch in the entry hall. “Listening.”
“If people come to me, they want to protect their marriages.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help them—okay?”
He’d leaned down and kissed my head. “Okay.”
As I explained to Helene and Scott how we could proceed,
that was the undercurrent I tried to convey: that I respected their step toward
protecting the sacred and that I would help them as best I could.
I will always remember that—the three of us sitting in the
office, clustered around the candy jar, as we pledged to resuscitate their marriage,
me just the tiniest bit smug, totally oblivious to the fact that at that exact
moment, my own marriage had begun to fall apart.
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