The Love Magician

by Alicia Mu?oz

As a kid, I used to watch in awe whenever magicians tore up playing cards at birthday parties and restored them a moment later, as if the destruction had never happened. I loved how they could pull vanished coins out of the air. Or saw a box in half without causing the person inside any pain, and then put the box—and the person—back together. Magicians were human, yet they could still access a miraculous universe of possibilities, transforming something into nothing—or nothing into something—with a few key words, or the wave of a wand.

My own childhood universe held little magic. On good days, my father, mother, brother, and I avoided each other until dinnertime, and then sat in our chairs at a small, round table chewing in silence. On bad days, my father criticized my mom for spending more time raising money to protect the environment than raising her own kids—or else he praised whatever she hated, usually Ronald Reagan and the NRA. In the space of a few seconds, the yelling would begin and something would break: a wine glass against a wall, or one of my mother’s favorite plates. On those days, I ran to my room, hid in the closet, and sang old campfire songs: “Rose, rose, rose, rose, wilt thou ever see me wed? I will marry at thy will, sire, at thy will.” I dreamed of shimmering fairy dust drifting down our chimney, reversing the spell of whatever dark curse was gripping my parents’ hearts.

Years later, after trying my hand at a few unsustainable careers, I went back to graduate school and began working as a relationship therapist. It seemed like the right fit for me. Armed with the secret hope that what I’d been through growing up could fuel my passion to help others, I was sure I had what it took to repair severed connections between couples using the seemingly magical revelations therapeutic tools can create. Conflicts would turn into forgiveness. Love would be reignited. I coached couples on developing more empathy, expressing feelings, admitting fears, and envisioning ideal relationships. I was sure that transformation could happen for them—if I worked hard enough.

Many of my clients believed this, too. When I caught them gazing at me the way I’d once looked at magicians—expectant and hopeful—it motivated me to expand my repertoire of clinical interventions. There had to be ways I could generate the big, dramatic shifts that turned unhappy marriages into happy ones. I went to conferences all over the country just to watch respected therapists showcase miraculous work with clients on the brink of divorce. Achieving this kind of success meant attending even more trainings, I concluded, rehearsing new strategies, getting better through repetition, experience, practice, and sheer will.

Eddie and Sharon broadcast their need for magic the moment they walked in my door.

“You’re our third couples therapist,” Sharon said flatly. “Either you help us get along, or we need to call off the engagement.” She was striking to look at—part Elvira, part Orphan Annie—shaking a head of bright, red curls as she sauntered across my office in a floor-length black skirt. It was easy to see why she got callbacks as a stage actress in New York.

“If I couldn’t help them, what good was I? I had to be able to make a difference. But what I made instead was a huge mistake.”

“I won’t tolerate lying,” Eddie said, in what seemed like a non sequitur. A successful Manhattan real estate mogul with bushy eyebrows and a ruddy complexion, he rearranged the cushions on my couch with the proprietary air of a man who was used to owning things. For all I knew, he owned the suite we were meeting in, which I was leasing with two other therapists.

“I won’t tolerate lying.” Sharon imitated his voice and facial expression perfectly, even capturing the high-pitched Bostonian pronunciation of tolerate. Then, she burst out laughing—a cascade of full-throated, unapologetic glee. “Sorry,” she said at last. “It’s just you both look so serious.”

“Let’s pause here,” I suggested, trying to ignore the dull, pulsing ache in my lower back—a sign I was getting anxious, even though they’d just sat down. “How do you think Eddie feels when you imitate him in that way?”

“I have no idea.” Sharon dragged her fingers along the corners of her eyes, where the eyeliner was heaviest. It must have been waterproof; none of it smudged. “She doesn’t care,” Eddie said. “She thinks it’s a game.”

Skipping right over my usual opening act—a one-comment ice-breaker about the weather, a reminder about the bathrooms, a palliative dose of psychoeducation—I asked Sharon, “Can you tell me what you think frustrates Eddie most about you?” I’d learned this technique in my couples certification program as a way of bypassing blame and defensiveness: ask each person to share what they think frustrates their partner most about them. Usually, it was something I worked up to with a little more finesse, but my anxiety got the better of me, and I pulled this question out of my hat like a limp white rabbit.

“About me?” Sharon asked, playing along. “It probably frustrates him that I won’t sign a prenup. And I don’t laugh at his jokes. And I’m always late, according to him.”

“What about you, Eddie?” I asked. “What frustrates Sharon about you?”

“I hate drama.” Eddie examined his nails. “And I keep things to myself—I’m a private person. Oh, and it bothers her that I don’t take her on more vacations.”

“That’s bullshit!” Sharon pointed at Eddie, her face flushing red. For a split second, I was back with my mom and dad, again, at a small round table, waiting for something to break. I resisted the urge to run and hide. “I don’t give a damn about vacations,” Sharon shouted. “But I do care when you spend a week in Mexico partying your ass off without even telling me!”

I steadied myself, feeling woozy....

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