L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

finish. The silence was painful.
“You’re here because you read something in Pauline’s journal that compelled you to
get in touch with me, is that right?”
“I think so. Yes,” I said. I looked around the room for another door, one that could lead
me to the courtyard and away from this place.
“What is it that you think compelled you?”
“It wasn’t just the book,” I blurted out. Through the window I noticed a couple of
women entering the courtyard gate.
“What was it, then?”
I thought of my couple, their arms entwined. I thought of the notebook, of Pauline
backing towards the bed, and the man—
“It was Pauline, the way she is with men. With her boyfriend. I’ve never been like that
with anyone, not even my husband. And no one has ever been like that with me. She
seems so … free.”
“And you want that?”
“I do. I think. Is that something you work on?”
“That’s the only thing we work on,” she said. “Now, why don’t we start with you. Tell
me a little bit about yourself.”
I don’t know why it all felt so easy, but my story poured from my mouth. I told
Matilda about growing up in Ann Arbor. How my mother died when I was young, and
how my dad, an industrial fence contractor, was rarely around, and when he was, he
was by turns sour or overly aectionate, especially when he was drunk. I grew up
cautious and alert to how the weather in a room could change. My sister, Lila, left home
as soon as she could and moved to New York. We barely spoke now.
Then I told Matilda about Scott, sweet Scott and sorrowful Scott, the Scott who slowdanced
with me to country music in our kitchen and the Scott who hit me twice and
never stopped begging forgiveness I couldn’t give. I told her how our marriage
deteriorated as his drinking escalated. I told her how his death hadn’t liberated me but
rather had relegated me to a quiet middle ground, a safe corral of my own making. I
had no idea how badly I needed to talk to another woman, how isolated I’d become,
until I started opening up to Matilda.
Then, I said it. It just kind of spilled out: the fact that it had been years since I’d had
sex.
“How many years?”
“Five. Almost six, I guess.”
“It’s not uncommon. Grief, anger, resentment play awful tricks on the body.”
“How do you know? Are you a sex therapist?”
“Sort of,” she said. “What we do here, Cassie, is we help women get back in touch with
their sexual side. And in so doing, they get back in touch with the most powerful part of
themselves. One Step at a time. Does that interest you?”
“I guess. Sure,” I said, as squeamish as the time I had to tell my dad I had started my
period. With no woman in the house growing up, except for my dad’s listless girlfriend,
I’d never actually spoken about sex out loud with anyone.