Marika, true to her word, emailed me a list of twelve family counselors that she used in her law practice and asked me to pick one. Being a pragmatist, I gave the list of names to one of my junior research associates. I asked if he could work on it off the clock as a favor. He agreed, and within a day he had a file on each therapist. My main concern was their rate of reconciliation, but that wasn’t possible because those statistics were hidden by client privilege. So, all we could research was their own public statements. After carefully reading the evidence, it boiled down to two: Ms. Angela Seaver or Mrs. Melanie Edwards.

I called Mrs. Edwards’ office for an appointment. She was able to see us on Thursday because there was a cancellation on that day.

Marika texted me saying she was working late and told me to get takeout. I was disappointed because I was anxious to tell her my news. After I picked up Timmy from his kindergarten extended care, we went to KFC. He preferred McDonald’s, but I tried to avoid that place because of the way they market toward kids. Nutrition seemed secondary to getting those “junk toys.”

While we ate, I recognized one of the secretaries from my firm. She met my gaze and made a beeline toward us.

“Hi, Jack. This must be your son.”

‘’Hello, Janice. This is Timmy.”

“He looks just like you.”

Timmy beamed.

“I’ve heard that before,” I replied. “But I think he’d be better off with his mother’s looks.”

“Jack, I’m so sorry about you and your wife. Divorce can be extremely hard on kids…”

I franticly tried to signal her to shut up, but it was too late. Timmy snapped his head around and looked at her.

Realizing her error, she stuttered, “S-Sorry. I apologize. I… I’m such a blabbermouth.”

“Janice, I’ll see you at work. Thanks for the chat,” I said in a tone that really meant, close your fucking mouth and leave.

Timmy looked at her walking away, and then back at me. I could tell he was thinking about what she said. He was a smart kid.

“Daddy, what’s div-orss?”

“It’s a grownup word we don’t say.”

“Like when Gampa says fuk?”

“Yes, like that—but worse.”

I would do anything for my son and was more determined than ever to keep him from the heartbreak of divorce.

*****

Marika came home right after I finished putting Timmy in bed. It was unusual for her to work late but I didn’t question her. She walked over to the fridge and looked inside.

“I bought you some chicken if you’re hungry. You might need to nuke it,” I said, pushing a KFC box toward her. When she came closer to me, I could smell the alcohol on her breath, but I didn’t say anything.

“How was your day?” she asked, half interested. I could tell her mind was preoccupied.

“My day was busy as usual. They keep piling on more clients they know I don’t have time to take on. I have no choice other than to pass them on to the associates.”

“It sounds like they’re either grooming you for bigger things or testing your resolve under fire.”

“Yeah, I thought the same. Oh, by the way, I made an appointment with one of your family counselors on Thursday at four. I hope you can free up a couple hours.”

“That was quick.” She looked at me. “Let me guess… Melanie Edwards?”

“How’d you know? Did she call you?”

“No, but I know you, and I know her. I figured you’d choose her because she’s a helpless romantic that believes all relationships can be saved.”

“Well, so do I—especially ours,” I replied, holding my wife by the shoulders and looking in her face. I tried to kiss her, but she turned away.

“Jack, I think you’re going to regret doing this. There are things about me you don’t know and don’t ever want to know. Why can’t you just accept that it’s over? Therapy will just make it more painful for you.”

“Why can’t I accept it’s over? I love you, that’s why, but you already know that.”

“Just so you know, I already saw a therapist before I ever filed for divorce.”

“When? Why did you not tell me until now?”

She didn’t answer. It seemed as if she regretted telling me that.

“Answer me. Why didn’t you tell me? Does some therapist have more influence on you and the future of our marriage than I do?”

“I told you there are so many things you don’t know about me. You keep telling me you want the truth but be careful what you wish for. Can we drop this for now? I want to clean up and go to bed. I’m beat. It’s been a long day.”

With that, she walked out. I sat there thinking what else she might have hidden. Apparently, the woman I thought I knew so well, I didn’t know at all.

When I entered the bedroom a half-hour later, Marika was drying off from the shower. As she turned away to brush her teeth, I couldn’t miss her beet red bottom. I felt bad that the vigorous spanking I gave her yesterday had left marks. The hot shower didn’t help; she always turned the temperature so high it was almost steam.

“What are the sleeping arrangements tonight?” I asked, hoping for an encore, watching her slip on her nightgown.

“Wherever you want, but I’m not in the mood for anything more than sleeping.”

“How about we talk then?”

“Only if it’s not about the divorce. You’re just beating a dead horse.”

Marika crawled under the sheets, propped herself up on the headboard, and started to read a book. I wasn’t sure by her cool mannerisms if she wanted solitude or not. After noticing the alcohol on her breath, I wondered if she decided to go ahead and see other men after all. It would have been silly of me to throw a jealous fit because I was the one that told her to go ahead and date.

I never felt more powerless. The one person I wanted most in life was Marika, and I was losing her. It seemed like I was a man falling off a cliff and helplessly thrashing his arms about. No matter how hard I waved them, I would eventually go splat!

“Get your rest,” I said. “I won’t bother you. Remember to meet me at the therapist’s office at four. I’m going in early to work.” I slipped under the sheets.

All she did was give me a thumbs up. I knew if I said more, it would end badly.

*****

The waiting room was decorated pleasantly, but a bit too feminine for my taste.

Why do all waiting rooms have to display Family Circle and People magazines? I looked at my watch and it was five till four. Where was Marika?

Just then, the door swung open and she came rushing in. She seemed frustrated as she said, “The fucking traffic was a nightmare.” She looked at the other couple there and murmured, “Pardon my French. It’s just one of those days.”

A short time later, the receptionist announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, Melanie will see you now.”

With that, I opened the door for my wife. The office was huge and decorated much like the waiting room.

Melanie rose and said, “Make yourselves comfortable. This first meeting will be a short introductory session to see if we are compatible as I go over some basic rules.”

I was usually a pretty good judge of character and was happy I had chosen her to be our therapist. She appeared to be in her early forties (in my estimation), with a beautiful smile; and from what I could tell through her clothes, a shapely figure. As I looked around her office, I noticed the lack of personal items—things like family photos and such.

” … Mr. Thomas?”

“Oh, I’m sorry… What was the question?”

“I asked you if you preferred I call you Jack?”

“Yeah, Jack is fine. Don’t call me Robert. What do I call you?”

“Melanie or Mel is fine, just don’t call me ‘Dr. Edwards.’ I’m a therapist, not a physician. As I said, this first meeting is introductory. We will establish the direction and frequency of our meetings, plus your personal expectations. I have a rather long questionnaire for each of you to fill out at home. If we are to make progress, it is imperative you each answer these questions honestly. There will be no looking at each other’s replies. This is for my eyes only. Do you have any questions before we continue?”

I looked at Marika and she shrugged her shoulders.

“Are we to avoid discussing these meetings with each other?”

“Jack, that would defeat the purpose of our sessions. The greater your communication, the better chance you have at making progress. However, both here and home, I stress that all dialogue be civil. If you have anger issues, you need to express them as congenially as possible. If you have more questions, save them for our next meeting.”

She stood up, handed us our questionnaire and said, “I would like to see you twice a week. Schedule that with my secretary on the way out… it was nice to meet you both.”

We walked to the parking garage together in virtual silence until I said, “I’ll pick up Timmy from daycare if it’s all right with you?”

“That’s great actually because I’m meeting someone for drinks in half an hour.”

I stared at Marika and wanted to say something but held back. She seemed to notice my anxiety and added, “Don’t worry, it’s strictly business.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to. I know that pouty look well.” She simpered, kissing my cheek.

*****

It was a tough day at the office, and rather than stay late I brought my work home. When I dropped my stacks of files on my desk, I noticed my questionnaire from Mel was still untouched. I wondered if Marika had filled hers out yet. I looked through it quickly and considered this might have been the most personal list of questions I’d ever encountered.                                                                              

The very first question asked was why I was seeking a therapist for help. That was easy. I wanted to save our marriage. The following questions were not so easy. Some were deeply personal. She was asking details not only of our sex lives, but our parents also. There was one that stood out more than the others. It asked if I had ever cheated on my wife. I answered a resounding no. Then it went on to describe cheating as both physical, mental, and emotional.

Does that mean flirting or online chatting is cheating? I wondered.

When it said to describe my marriage, I wrote how we were a happy couple that had a lot in common. After reading my answer, I thought how silly that sounded. How could that be? She was divorcing me!

After several hours of soul searching, I finished the questionnaire and looked at the clock. It was almost two in the morning and Marika still wasn’t home.

Where the fuck is she? I thought, looking at my watch.

I tried to busy myself with a difficult case, but I was so exhausted I couldn’t concentrate. After several attempts to call my wife, it kept going straight to voicemail. Giving up on doing anything productive, I decided to watch a movie instead. I must have fallen asleep in my recliner and didn’t wake until I heard a car pull up in the driveway.

I waited several minutes for her to come in, but she didn’t; there was just the sound of a key fumbling in the lock. Eventually the doorbell rang, and I heard a car drive away. When I opened the door, Marika was leaning against the porch support, half conscious. She smelled like a distillery. She looked at me groggily and stumbled into the house.

I caught her as she fell and asked, “Where the hell have you been? It’s almost two in the morning!”

“I… I don’t feel well,” she replied. Then, she gagged like she was about to puke.

I lifted her up and carried her with her mumbling incoherently. I found it curious how heavy her small body seemed to be as dead weight.

Marika slipped in and out of consciousness as I carried her into the bathroom, setting her on the toilet. I had to undress her. When I peeled off her dress, it stunk of cheap booze and sex. Her bra and panties were both missing. Some of her upper body had splotches of crusty stuff I knew was dried cum. When I turned her over on her stomach, I saw that someone had written something on her buttocks in lipstick: WHORE.

“What have you done?” I asked with tears in my eyes. I had enough presence of mind to snap some photos of the writing with my phone before I cleaned her up.

“Just... shhhh… I wanted it.” She giggled, drunk out of her mind. “… Gal’s allowed to have fun!”

I leaned her up on the shower stool and carefully scrubbed her with a sponge and the hand-held sprayer. Even some of her hair was stuck together with globs of goo. I couldn’t fathom any explanation that could justify my wife—my former wife—becoming some cum-dump.

She definitely had a problem with liquor. Many times in the past I had to rescue her at parties when she consumed too much. Alcohol was her achilles’ heel.

How could she have let this happen? I fought back tears.

After she puked again in the toilet, I helped her to bed and went to check on Timmy. He was still sound asleep, oblivious to the painful reality around him. I stayed awake beside her the rest of the night, afraid that she’d choke on her own vomit.

*****

The next day, I rose later than usual and let Marika sleep it off. I knew she’d have one hell of a headache. After fixing some Raisin Bran and pop waffles for Timmy, I dropped him off at his kindergarten before I went to work. Fortunately, my day was extremely busy, and I was thankful for the distraction.

We had our therapy session scheduled at four. I debated canceling the appointment because I knew Marika probably wouldn’t be there. After last night’s events, I had little desire to still fight the divorce. On the other hand, it all seemed so out of character for the woman I married.

What could have possessed her to do something like this? I kept wondering.

I decided to go, even if I was alone. I realized my goals had drastically changed from trying to save my marriage at all cost, to trying to save my son from the heartbreak divorce brings. I sat in the waiting room looking at a recipe in Family Circle, when to my surprise, Marika came through the door. She chose to sit across the room, avoiding my gaze. I could tell by her fidgeting that she didn’t want to be here anymore than I did.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, Melanie will see you now,” the receptionist announced. I stood and held the door for Marika.

As she brushed by me, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

We sat in silence as Mel spent a few minutes reading over the answers to our questionnaires. “Hmmm,” she uttered a few times, tapping her pen on the desk before she said, “I sense something new has happened. Would either of you care to share?”

We looked at each other, then back at Mel before Marika started to openly weep. I couldn’t help myself as I scooted next to her and put my arm around her shoulder.

I started to talk but Marika interrupted me and said, “I don’t deserve a man like this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I did something horrible last night and I feel like shit because I know it was all about self-sabotage.”

“Marika, what did you do?” Mel asked.

“I went out with a client to a lounge for drinks. She said she wanted to discuss setting up a living trust. Normally, I wouldn’t meet with a client outside of the office, but she was very convincing. I did eventually agree, but I drove my own car and followed her. As I remember, it was a typical bar lounge. We took a table and ordered a couple margaritas.”

“What happened after that?”

“Well, we we had a couple drinks and talked a bit about what type of trust she wanted to set up before we were approached by a couple men that asked to pay for our drinks. My client eagerly accepted, but I was apprehensive. I remember he was a big intimidating guy with a tattoo of an eagle on his forearm… he sat next to me and asked me to dance. I felt a bit uneasy as he pulled me out on the dance floor… pretty soon they announced the bar was closing. I don’t remember much after that—just disconnected bits and pieces. I was… drunk out of my mind.”

I’d heard of alcohol amnesia before, but I wasn’t buying this. “What a convenient explanation, Marika,” I angrily erupted. “Sounds like a crock of shit to me! How is it that you can’t remember the details?”

Mel intervened and said, “Now, Jack, remember what I said about being civil? Marika, you don’t need to answer his question.”

“No, I want to answer. I remember flashes of different men pulling at me, their laughter and the awful stink of cigars… I’m so sorry, but I can’t remember much past that.”

“So, do you have any memory of this?” I asked, holding up the picture I took of the writing on her butt.

Marika stared at the photo, wide-eyed in shock. “Oh my God! Is that me?”

“And here are the others… with you coated in semen. Still claiming no recollection?”

She shook her head, spilling tears. “I… I told you I don’t remember very much.”

“Wait a minute,” said Mel. “If this is true, I’m required by law to report this. If I don’t, I could lose my license. If there is even the slightest possibility of nonconsensual sex, I need to report this immediately.”

“Please don’t report this,” Marika pleaded. “I… I wasn’t violated. I was an active participant and that’s why I’m confessing… because I feel so guilty.”

I felt like a fool for not suspecting that possibility earlier. Except for her drunkenness there was no other physical evidence of forced sex like bruises or cuts.

“I’m sorry but I washed off the evidence last night,” I said.

“Not necessarily,” Mel replied. “There can still be plenty of DNA evidence, but time is critical.”

With that, Mel ignored Marika’s begging her not to report it and placed a phone call to the police.

I knew there must be more to this story than Marika revealed. Claiming alcohol induced amnesia was the easiest way out.