LITMIR.BIZ

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he ever carried out any of his threats? Has he ever gotten violent with you?” I asked gently.

      “Well, sort of . . . But none of this is really his fault! I haven’t been a good enough wife. I haven’t been the kind of wife he wanted.”

      “That would hardly give him the right—”

      “I know.” It was barely a whisper. We sat a few moments in silence.

      “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

      “Oh, my goodness, it’s been such a long time. I’m not even sure. Maybe a year? Or even longer.”

      That was straining credulity. “You haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year? Are you sure he’s OK?”

      “Of course he’s OK,” she said. “His friends see him all the time.”

      There was something very odd going on here. I needed a new line of inquiry.

      “What kind of work does he do?” I asked.

      “He’s a . . . an entrepreneur.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Oh, it’s kind of hard to explain. He’s always busy with one thing or another. Got his finger in a million pies.” She smiled weakly, as if to apologize for the obvious evasion.

      The husband was starting to sound like a shady character. I wondered if he might be part of the Israeli Mafia. Sometimes these Mafia types had to go underground for long periods of time, keeping their whereabouts unknown even to their wives. That would explain the lackeys with their violent threats. But was she covering up for him, or did she really not know? Now I was genuinely curious.

      “Do you have any idea where he’s been this past year?” I asked.

      “Not really. Even before that, he was never around much. He has an office in the house, with a separate entrance. Sometimes I think I hear him shuffling around down there, but I’m never sure. The office has a couch, but I don’t think he ever sleeps there anymore. Maybe his friends put him up. He must hang around with them a lot; you should see how they worship him.” She looked embarrassed. “Like I said, I don’t really know where he is.”

      “Do you think he may have another woman?” I asked gently.

      She broke into a pained laugh. “Him? With another woman? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the only love of his life.”

      Even for a battered woman, that level of denial was extreme. I’d seen my share of absentee husbands, usually with a mistress or two in town, sometimes a slew of kids, and the wife sitting at home all innocent and surprised. Did he really sneak into his office, send threatening messages? It seemed much more likely that the guy had set up a whole new life, that she imagined his little visits, had made up the whole story about the stalking to convince herself that she was still married. Could an intelligent woman really be so blind?

      And she did seem intelligent. I’d heard a lot of bizarre tales in my time, but something about her had caught my attention. There was the sharp, penetrating way she looked at me, even through her tears, that was disconcerting. I wondered if she was trying to hear my mind’s commentary, to see through my pretense. It was a question that usually didn’t concern me much, but I was feeling a little sensitive myself these days. It occurred to me that from the couch there was nothing much to look at other than the mess of charts; from the recliner I could always keep an eye on my reflection in the glass of the window. Without those reassuring peeks at my professional mien—the gently receding hairline, strong chin, and wire-framed glasses that made me look distinguished, even professorial—I felt, instead, naked and exposed.

      “Israela, given the fact that your husband hasn’t been around for so long and that he has this violent streak, I’m not clear why you would want to stay in this relationship. You could claim desertion, or abuse—file for divorce, start a new life.”

      “Oh, but I’ve given you such a terrible impression of him! He loves me so much! And he’s the center of my life, he’s everything to me! And we’ve been married such a long time. You’d really need to hear the whole story. This isn’t a marriage one gets out of lightly!”

      “One never gets out of a marriage lightly,” I said, in my reassuring, doctor voice. It was the party line, but of course it wasn’t true. Nava had tossed her wedding ring into a coffee cup, and poof, she was out. I wondered again what she would think listening to Penina or Israela, the disdain she would hold for the multitude of women who remained loyal and committed to men who abandoned and abused them. At least I’d never disappeared for months or gotten violent. Why didn’t Nava appreciate what she had in me?

      Israela was staring at me, a curious, almost bemused, look on her face.

      I snapped myself back to my professional bearing. “Israela, it sounds like this has been going on for a long time. I’m still not clear why you’re seeking treatment now. How do you think therapy will be able to help you?”

      She leaned forward in the chair. “You’re not the first person to tell me I should divorce him, forget all about him. All the neighbors say the same thing. But I can’t. I miss him so much. You can’t imagine how awful it is for me.”

      “But you haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year . . .”

      “I can’t leave him!” she cried. “He’d be lost without me. I can’t destroy him like that after all he’s done for me! And I’d be lost without him. He’s the one who rescued me from my horrible childhood, the one who gives my life meaning and purpose. I’ll never divorce him. Do you think you can help me? Do you think you can help me be the kind of wife he wants me to be?” At this, she broke into another wave of heaving sobs.

      Her reality testing was tenuous at best. The guy was happily shacked up with another woman, had practically forgotten she existed, but she couldn’t leave him because he’d be devastated. She never saw him, but he was the only thing giving her life purpose. He’d be lost without her, she’d be lost without him. The thought of even trying to tease out the truth of this bizarre, dysfunctional marriage exhausted me.

      I needed more context to figure this out. “Tell me about the rest of your life, Israela. Do you have children? Do you work? What about your family?”

      “I have no family; I was an orphan,” she replied. “I don’t have any life outside of him; that’s part of the problem. Like I told you, he’s insanely jealous. I’m not to have any friends, male or female. He would kill me if I ever got a paying job; he doesn’t even want me walking about the neighborhood by myself. And since the intifada started, he’s even more opposed to my leaving the house—he’s terribly worried that something could happen to me. You know that couple who died in Thursday’s bombing on King George Street? They left two orphans, and she was five months pregnant.” She paused for effect. “He totally freaks out whenever something like that happens.”

      “Well, of course,” I said, “it affects us all. But we can’t just stay locked up in our homes.”

      “I agree, but he doesn’t see it that way. That’s why I wear that enormous shawl. I sneak around like a criminal just to leave the house.” Her voice went down to a frightened whisper. “He’s always been obsessed with the idea that I might be having an affair, but it’s not true. Don’t let them tell you otherwise!”

      “Don’t let who tell me otherwise?”

      “His friends, they’re everywhere!” She stared out the window like a terrified child, her neck stiff, her shoulders hunched in fear, and I turned to look, half-expecting to see a spying face hanging from the fourth-floor sill. Her voice was rising with panic. “He’ll be furious when he hears I came to see you. Just you wait and see. When word gets out, they’ll come to see you too. They’ll tell you terrible lies about me. Don’t believe a word they say!”

      I kept my voice calm and professional. “But if your husband’s never around, how would he even know what you’re doing? And how would these

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