The Breakup Doctor Page 13

  And what do you know, when she clicked on Becky Anastasi’s name from Theodore’s page, her page pulled right up, only this time with lots more info visible. Her age—twenty-eight. Her hobbies—rock climbing, Pilates, water sports, and “good friends and good times.” Her favorite quotes: “I live for the nights I can’t remember with the people I’ll never forget” and “All the things I really like to do are either immoral, illegal, or fattening.” Her relationship status: “It’s complicated.”

  “‘It’s complicated,’” Lisa repeated, glaring holes through me. “Who even says that past high school? Unless your boyfriend happens to have a wife.” She blinked hard a few times and transferred her glare out over the river. I was hoping its soft splashing sounds as it mazed through the rocks we were sitting on might soothe her, but Lisa did not look soothed.

  I wondered if Kendall had a Facebook page. How strange that I didn’t even know. Sasha had been trying to get me on Facebook for years, but I kept resisting. It risked blurring too many lines with my clients.

  “Hey, are you even listening to me?” Lisa’s acidic tone cut across my straying thoughts. “This morning he changed his password on Facebook and he blocked me. It’s like he doesn’t even exist to me on there—I’m dead to him. What am I supposed to do now, Dr. Phil?”

  The sun’s warmth sank into my scalp, my shoulders, my eyelids, and I realized my eyes were closed. I blinked them open and looked right at Lisa, just staring at her without a word as I wondered why on earth I had ever agreed to help this harpy of a woman. If she’d come to me as a regular patient I would have refused to take her on, made a polite excuse for why I wasn’t the right doctor for her, and given her a referral elsewhere. A patient had to be open to self-investigation and change for me to make any progress with them. Lisa Albrecht was too hard, too closed off, too infallibly right in her own mind to do any real work on herself. All she wanted was a magic formula to keep her husband roped tightly to her side, no effort required on her part. I found myself cheering the guy on and hoping he kept running from this harridan far and fast.

  My fingers clenched against the warm stone I was propping myself up on. Was that why Kendall had left me? Was I as bad as Lisa Albrecht, rabidly self-assured, blind to anyone else’s needs, bossy and abrasive?

  A clicking sound dragged my gaze back to Lisa, who was leaning forward, snapping her fingers as close to my face as she could reach. “Hey, snap out of it. You’re on the clock. You know, I don’t pay you just to hear myself talk. Where’s the advice, Doctor? How about a game plan, here?”

  I sat up straight, trying to focus on Lisa. “I’m not a doctor... I’m just an LMHC.” For the first time I understood why my mother felt the title was so inadequate. Why Kendall apparently did too.

  “You are a professional. You’re supposed to be an expert. That’s why I hired you to write a column for all of my readers, isn’t it? Isn’t that why I am paying you this exorbitant amount to tell me what the hell to do to get my husband back where he belongs? Come on, ‘Breakup Doctor.’ Doctor me.”

  I felt a surge of pure, absolute hatred. For mouthy, mean Lisa Albrecht. For Kendall. Even for my mom, though it was her voice that flared in my head, a firm, ineluctable, Cowgirl up.

  I stood abruptly and started off the rocks.

  “Hey! Where are you going?”

  I didn’t turn around. “Back home. We’re done.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m not done. I’m paying you—get back here!”

  I stopped and turned around, slowly, enjoying making Lisa Albrecht wait. A good therapist gently guides the patient toward understanding her own situation, rather than making a snap, blanket diagnosis and vomiting it up on her.

  But I didn’t feel like a good therapist at the moment.

  “Lisa...you’re so afraid to be vulnerable—to yourself or anyone else—that you’ve built a wall of rage around you. No one can hurt you, because no one can reach you past the unkind, angry, self-centered shell you’ve built up. I don’t know if you were always like this or if it’s just since your marriage troubles began, but that’s not how a relationship works. You didn’t hire me to help you figure out how to fix what went wrong in your marriage—you just want to know how to control your husband, and I won’t help you do that. I’ll send your check back tomorrow. Now get in the car. I’m leaving.”

  Power surged through me as I strode back to my car. I wondered what I would do if Lisa just refused to get in—could I really just leave her here?

  I thought of her snarky little comments while I was sitting on a rock with her by the river trying to solve her problems—ignoring my own. The problems she had so clearly caused herself. Yes. I could leave her. I got in and started the engine, starting to back away.

  Suddenly Lisa appeared out of the break in the areca palms, waving her arms and shouting. “Wait! Wait! Brook... Please.”

  From the look on her face I could tell that last word tasted like acid on her tongue. But I had figured Lisa Albrecht out: She needed a firm hand. She didn’t respond well to the kind of gentle, unobtrusive therapy I was used to. Lisa Albrecht basically needed disciplining.

  I kept creeping backward for a moment, letting her wonder if I would leave her here, in what was surely the wild to her.

  “Brook...please stop. I... I could really use your help.”

  That was the closest I would ever get to an apology from this woman, I decided. Slowly, I pressed the brakes, stopped the car, and unlocked the passenger door.

  sixteen

  There wasn’t a lot I could do for Lisa in the way of damage control—thanks to her compulsive phone calls and her hacking into his Facebook and email accounts, Theodore had simply excised her from his life like a malignant tumor. She couldn’t undo the things she’d done to push him completely away from her.

  What we could work on—and did, for the next two hours—was impulse control. Like an alcoholic, she had to battle her behavior with Theodore one compulsion at a time. I didn’t kid her that there was any hope for reconciliation—not from what I’d seen and heard from her. But she had to get a handle on her behavior for the sake of her dignity—and her children.

  I realized, viscerally, that part of the reason Lisa was acting crazy—besides the fact that she might, in fact, be a little mentally unstable—was not having any concrete answer from Theodore about what was going on in their marriage. For all that her behavior was off the deep end, he had walked out on her without any further explanation or clarification, leaving her in relationship limbo.

  I could certainly sympathize with that.

  “You don’t have the right to terrorize Theodore—or his friends,” I told Lisa once we got back to her house.

  “‘Friends?!’” she huffed. “You can’t tell me for one second that little pinheaded blond bimbo is anything but—”

  I gave her a warning look and she pressed her lips shut. I went on in the same calm tone of voice, as if she hadn’t interrupted: “But you do have the right to know what’s happening with your marriage. It isn’t fair for Theodore to just walk away from the commitment he made to you without letting you know his intentions. You have a right to know if he’s actually filing for divorce and what you need to do as far as getting an attorney to—”

  Lisa shot to her feet. “Filing against me for divorce? When he’s the one running around with some Malibu Barbie practically the same age as his sons? After I’ve supported him for the last twenty fucking years? Good luck taking that before a judge—I’ll leave him living under a bridge in his underwear. Let’s see how much his little Baywatch babe wants him then.”

  I crossed my arms and simply looked at her. Lisa Albrecht had sarcasm Tourette’s, and I’d now learned that the key to managing her was threatening to take away what she wanted—which, even though she had a hard time saying it, was my help.

  I watched as she painfully schooled her features into com
plaisance and settled meekly back down onto the sofa. She took a deep, shaky breath. “Okay. You’re right... I need to... I need to...” She looked up at me and for the first time her face softened into a more open expression. I blinked in surprise. Lisa Albrecht was actually almost pretty. “I don’t know, Brook. What do I need to do now?”

  So together we drafted a letter she would send to Theodore at the friend’s house where she’d found out from her sons he was staying.

  “I don’t see why I can’t just email it,” she grumbled as we sat side by side in front of her monitor, carefully composing what she would say. Or rather, as I made her delete most of the acerbic language she used and rephrase it into something concise, clear, and venom-free.

  “Because he will delete it without opening it,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Why don’t I just drive it over to him myself?”

  “No. That’s just an excuse to stalk him.”

  “Then why don’t I just give it to Jack and Michael to take to him on one of their visits?”

  “Absolutely not. This is between you and Theodore. You don’t stick your kids in the middle of it.”

  She sighed, exasperated, but fished an envelope out of her desk and started to address it. “Fine. But this is so medieval. And he won’t read it.”

  “Then after a fair amount of time, if you haven’t heard from him, you start divorce proceedings yourself. This is abandonment, and you can’t live your life waiting for Theodore to let you know what’s going on in your relationship.” Suddenly it was hard to breathe. I leaned back, concentrated on slowing my racing heart, and gentled my tone. “You deserve better than that, Lisa. And it’s time you took control of this situation.”

  Her eyes grew wet, but she simply blinked the tears away and gave a nod. She finished the letter and yielded the keyboard to me for final approval. I took out one last dig—we both know split-ups are hardest on the children—by which I mean Jack and Michael, not your new girlfriend—then we printed the letter and sealed it into the envelope, which I took with me to prevent any creative revisions on Lisa’s part before it got mailed. It was a chastened and unusually quiescent Lisa Albrecht who waved me out of her driveway.

  That’s right, I congratulated myself as I pulled off down her street. I was a take-no-shit Breakup Doctor. If I could whip a client as difficult as Lisa Albrecht into shape, then getting over a cowardly little weasel like Kendall Pulver was going to be a snap.

  I woke before dawn from an uneasy sleep and got up to work on my column. I had a full day of clients and a deadline. My topic was, “Red Flags: Early Signs of a Later Breakup.”

  From the very first date with someone new, although they’re probably putting forth their best first impression, they’re still telling you who they really are—even if they don’t know they’re doing it. Watch what they do, and listen to what they say.

  I remembered now: Kendall took two phone calls at dinner on our first date. They were business calls, he explained apologetically, holding up a finger and sliding out of his chair to step outside. He wasn’t gone long either time, but I sat there during his absences feeling awkward and unimportant.

  Does he give you his full attention? Does she listen when you talk? Does he ask questions about the things you say, showing interest in you? Sure, we’re all trying to present ourselves at our very best, but a person who’s fixated on him- or herself from the very beginning isn’t going to magically become involved, engaged, and interested in you as the relationship goes on.

  It was an hour into our date before Kendall asked what I did for a living. And then he got engrossed in the dessert menu in the middle of my explanation.

  And watch out for mentions of former lovers or spouses! Yes, that’s information most of us will share with someone as we become closer. But if a date brings it up too soon—or too often, or in too much detail—chances are they’re still emotionally hung up on whoever came before you.

  Kendall talked about his ex within fifteen minutes of sitting down to dinner. And not just a casual passing mention, but a lengthy recitation of how he’d been sure she was the one, moving across the country to be with her in Chicago, and the slow, painful, unavoidable realization once he’d settled in that she’d changed her mind.

  He’d hung on for almost a year, but when he finally couldn’t kid himself anymore that they were just going through a hard time of adjustment, he moved to Fort Myers for a clean start, to pursue his own career and interests and not make the mistake of planning his life around someone else.

  Big Red Flag. Of all people, I should have known better.

  And yet at the end of that date, Kendall pulled his car into my driveway, and said, “Wait here,” before getting out of the car, walking around to my side, and opening my door with his palm held out to help me out of his black S550. He walked me all the way to my doorstep, then stopped me with a hand on my shoulder when I reached my key to the lock. I braced myself for the crown jewel of unfortunate dates: the awkward avoidance of an inappropriate kiss.

  But all he did was say, “I had the best time tonight. Better than I’ve had in such a long time. Thank you.”

  There was such an unexpected, unguarded sweetness to his words and expression that they prompted a tiny, inconsequential lie, meant simply to make him feel better: “I’m glad. I did too.”

  A relieved smile had bloomed over his face. “I want to take you out again. Soon.”

  And right then...that was the moment when I’d overridden my instincts. Kendall Pulver wasn’t relationship material—not yet, and not for me. But I told myself that just because there wasn’t a possibility for anything serious didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy each other’s company casually for a while. I certainly wasn’t ready for anything deep either. After what had happened with Michael I just wanted to feel attractive again. Wanted.

  So I had started it—or allowed it to start. I opened a door I knew should have remained shut, thinking there was no harm. Thinking I’d know when to pull back. Feeling sorry for a broken man, knowing my own neediness at the time, and thinking we might simply offer each other a friendly hand to pull out of the swamp of our own despondency. And yes, I had to admit, lapping up the way he looked at me as if I were the sunrise after a long dark night.

  The walking wounded often commit deeply, and quickly, to fill whatever void their ex has left behind. In no time at all they make you feel needed. They make you feel important and essential and desired—you have made this person happy; you’ve fixed them.

  But you are not a savior. You can’t build a relationship on rescuing, and if he or she needs help, let them get it from a professional. You’re looking for a partner, not a project. And if you do succeed in “fixing” someone’s problems for them, chances are they’ll go find someone new who didn’t know them when they were broken.

  It was so easy to see in hindsight that I made some stupid mistakes early in with Kendall. I broke my own rules of relationships. If I’d been able to stay objective I would have seen the danger signs more clearly and avoided where I was right now—dumped by a man I hadn’t even wanted to go out with in the first place.

  Which made me wonder why.

  I knew, viscerally and firsthand, the futility of trying to parse out a breakup—when did things go wrong, what changed, why did the person you loved fall out of enchantment with you? There are no answers to these questions—at least, none that are helpful to know.

  But it didn’t stop me from working it through over and over in my head.

  Why did I chase Kendall for an opinion on my stupid column? Why did I need his validation? Why did I keep him from watching Kudlow and Company? I was a nag. I was insecure. I’d been too demanding.

  Why did I have to get so upset about his going in to work on Saturday? He’d taken the morning to spend with me. I knew when I met him he was a workaholic. It was one of the things I liked about him—his
strong work ethic, his commitment to doing his job as well as he could.

  But even though we’d argued, it hadn’t been that bad, had it? Bad enough to make him change his mind about us completely—after he was the one who’d asked me to move in? It was just one of those disagreements couples have—a minor blip on the radar. Did he not realize that all couples fought? Life wasn’t a movie—in real life, couples argued and bickered and disagreed. Sustaining a successful, long-lasting relationship wasn’t about avoiding altercations—that wasn’t realistic—but about learning how to handle those moments in a positive, respectful, healthy way. Didn’t he know that? Overall, he and I had been in great shape—healthy, stable.

  The realization dawned on me: It was just like what happened to Lisa. Theodore had walked out when Lisa thought everything was just fine. And then she found out about his Facebook flirtation with someone else.

  Suddenly my stomach felt queasy again. I leaned back in my office chair, where I was still parked in front of my computer, doing the final edit of my column. I remembered Sasha asking if I thought Kendall was screwing around. That’s not possible, I’d told her.

  It’s always possible. Men are men.

  Sasha was right about that, and I’d been too blindly naive to see it. Just like Lisa Albrecht, who didn’t realize how her own behavior had driven her husband out of their house and straight into the social media of another woman.

  I played back the last few weeks. He was always busy with work, but recently his hours had gotten ridiculous. I remembered the night he’d been out till the small hours with his “clients” from up north—when he’d gone to Iniquity, a club he hated. I thought of every missed meal, every late night, and finally the great unexplained absence when he simply hadn’t come home.