It had been a couple of weeks since the night Kevin screamed at me and Heather had taken me to the hospital. Silent weeks. I had moments when I believed it was over, the voice was gone, and other times I felt sure it would return.
I had arrived at Dr. Alexander’s office for my third visit sporting new state-of-the-art UV-protection sunglasses that I had bought the other day. They guaranteed to keep my eyeballs as safe as if I had them wrapped in tissue and stowed in my coat pocket. For what they cost, they should also do my laundry.
I wasn’t looking to become a material girl, but I had done a lot of shopping lately. Donna had finally come through, unfreezing my account. The first statement since Kevin’s death had come a few days before, bearing only my name. The balance made my eyes hurt. So much money. And shopping provided me with something to do besides skulk around my house and not answer the phone. And the phone kept ringing, the answering machine collecting each message for me, storing them inside the flashing red light on my phone. My sister’s endless questions; Blair’s teary, long-winded messages about how sorry he was to have “crossed the line of our friendship”; my mother’s brief but steady “just checking in” calls. And Maggie.
Heaven help us all from Maggie and her machine-gun approach to friendship. She called nearly daily, leaving meandering messages peppered with questions ranging from where under God’s blue skies could I be at this hour (I had stopped answering the phone or returning calls, but Maggie apparently concluded that I was cavorting all over town at all hours of the day and night), to asking for details about my therapy sessions. “Does he have a couch? Does he wear a beard? Freud had a beard.” Twice I hid behind the living room curtains and watched Maggie limp up to my front door. She rang the bell, knocked, sometimes both at once before giving up and shambling back to her car.
I wasn’t answering the phone or the door because I didn’t have a sane answer for the question, “How are you?” The answer changed at any given moment. And while I was home, the answer could best be described as “uptight.” I mostly just clung to corners and tried to make myself very small, like a ball, on the floor.
But Dr. Alexander’s office in the city was like another world, safe from the mundane yet traumatic life back in Greenfield. I felt more like a happy tourist in his office, far away from the life that troubled me. I found myself arriving in the city earlier than necessary for my appointments and strolling downtown sidewalks, peering into store windows, and buying things I didn’t need at a probably alarming rate.
On my feet was a pair of creamy leather sandals that rubbed a bit on the right heel, and a matching handbag so teeny I could only cram in a credit card, driver’s license, and coral-sunrise lipstick (also new). These were the spoils of sudden wealth and a newly developed desire to avoid being home alone.
Now that the insurance issues were dealt with, my bank account out of the freezer, and my bills were being paid, I had money to do whatever pleased me. Problem was, I was fast running out of things that pleased me. This, according to Dr. Alexander, was a good thing. He called it shop-therapy and warned it had very short-term benefits and long-term complications.
Dr. Alexander peered at me over his desk, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “What do you think about joining group therapy, Kate? I think you’d get a lot out of it. There is a grief group starting soon.” He rifled through some papers. “I don’t know when.” He pushed a button on his phone. “Sally?” Sally didn’t respond. He pushed another button. “Sally!” he hollered.
I heard a soft sigh from the phone. “Yes, Doctor?”
“What’re the dates for Laura-Lea Autumn’s group?”
“Wednesdays at 6:30 starting next week,” Sally answered immediately.
“You catch that?” Dr. Alexander said to me. I nodded.
“Laura-Lea is very good. Young, so you’ll be able to relate to her. Lovely girl. Smart, too. Runs a good group.”
“Uh, okay,” I said blankly. At least it was another excuse to get out of the house.
“I’m glad that’s settled,” he said. “I’ll let her know you’ll be taking a spot in the Wednesday evening group.
The following Wednesday, I arrived at the run-down Glen Hills Community Center for my first group-therapy session. It was in the heart of a poor and crime-ridden neighborhood in the city. The center was a floppy-roofed building shaped like a giant Quonset.
I parked in front and got out of the car. I looked at the neglected surroundings, then took a careful moment to lock the car doors and gave the hubcaps a glance. I hoped they’d be there when I returned.
I noticed the double doors of the hall were painted a too-bright blue, a strong contrast to the dirty beige walls. The wind picked up some garbage and swirled it around in the small alcove beside the doors. I took a deep breath. Keep an open mind, I told myself.
Inside, I saw a handwritten sign that read Group Therapy, with an arrow pointing to a narrow hallway. Straight ahead was another set of double doors. I peeked inside, then went down the narrow hall. The room was identified by another handwritten sign posted on the door.
I was the first to arrive. The room was so drab and utilitarian I wondered how anyone was supposed to feel better while sitting in it. It had the ambience of an abandoned classroom.
Two walls were taken up by peeling chalkboards (no chalk in sight). A third wall was covered by an orange pushpin board that was covered with an assortment of government-issue public health posters. One listed the symptoms of depression. I read the first three—depressed mood, inability to enjoy activities, problems concentrating—but it was too discouraging to finish. Another warned of HIV/AIDS and the high-risk behaviors that can lead to contracting the virus. I merely glanced at it. I knew I wasn’t in the high-risk category. I’d never done drugs of any kind. Also, I had never engaged in what the poster described as “casual sex.” Kevin and I were high school sweethearts. We were each other’s first—and only—lovers.
Other posters on various topics hung haphazardly from single pushpins, offering phone numbers to hotlines, mental health tips, and safety advice. On the corner of the poster listing the dangers of hepatitis C, someone had scrawled “this sux.”
Folding chairs were arranged in a circle in the center of the room. I was about to walk over and sit when a woman entered and without a glance in my direction grabbed a chair and carried it to the far wall. I stood, uncertain if I should do the same. Soon others arrived, two more women and three men. Each of them picked up a chair and found a spot along a wall. Everyone seemed intent on having the maximum space between them.
I selected one of the two remaining chairs and started to pull it toward the orange bulletin board, but about halfway to the poster the chair started making a horrible farty noise. Every head turned in the direction of the squealing rat-a-blat-vvvtt being emitted from my chair.
I stopped and cast a longing glance at the exit. I could just flee. Run away and never return. But everyone was looking at me.
Paralyzed by indecision, I finally slumped into my chair and stared at the floor. How was I going to get through this evening? Clearly I was the only crazy person here. I stole a glance around the room. I saw seven completely normal-looking people.
The woman who I assumed was Laura-Lea Autumn, the group facilitator, entered the room at precisely seven. Or at least her breasts did. The rest of her body followed seconds later.
The men in the room visibly brightened. The women, me included, did a quick breast check. I glanced covertly down at my chest and mentally conceded, “Yep, I’m out of the game.”
The short blond man in the gray wool pants (in the summer?) and checkered blue tie stared at Laura-Lea like he could hear “Make the World Go Away” in full orchestra. I crossed my arms over my chest and slid farther down in my chair.
Laura-Lea marched to the center of the room, and, hands on her oh-so-slim hips, she planted her feet far apart on the floor. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d produced pom-poms and broken out into a catchy cheer. She turned a slow circle, looking everyone in the eye. She was smiling in a way that was both perky and intimidating. As she turned, she pointed with a long manicured finger to the spot where the chairs had been. Clearly she wanted us to return our chairs to the middle of the room. We obeyed the silent command, fashioning a reasonable facsimile of the original circle.
Laura-Lea sat in her chair, smoothed her white cotton pants, and placed both hands on her knees. “We are here tonight to begin to heal.” She leaned forward, looking around the room. Heads bobbed in agreement—yes, yes, we’re here to heal. She smiled, seemingly satisfied with this response. “The whole point of group therapy is to heal ourselves, and” —her voice dropped to a soft, but oddly adorable whisper— “to heal each other.” More nodding, a few murmurs of agreement. Wool Pants Guy closed his eyes for a moment, as if savoring some sweet aroma.
Laura-Lea took a long, meaningful breath. “We’re here to share our innermost beings with each other. Our thoughts. Our hopes. Our dreams. Our very souls. Each one of us will stop at nothing until we have laid bare our greatest pain.” She let out a soft sigh. “But first, I need to have you sign these confidentiality forms.”
After group therapy, I walked through the foyer, surprised to hear a cacophony of voices, whistles, and the sound of balls bouncing off various surfaces.
Basketball, I thought as I walked across the foyer toward the gym. Kevin had loved basketball. He played it all through high school, always wearing jersey number three.
I pulled the door open a crack and looked in. From my Peeping-Tom vantage point I could only see half the gym. Several teenagers were gathered in the key, watching the ball circle the hoop as it decided which way to fall. When it spun into the basket, there was simultaneous cheering and booing. Two boys exchanged a fast and complicated-looking handshake and ran down the court, out of my view. I listened for a moment, and then pulled the door open enough for me to squeeze through, into the gym.
No one noticed me; they just kept playing. The teams appeared to be red bandannas versus blue. A tall, skinny boy with a red bandanna tied around his wrist was dribbling fast down the court. A girl, shorter, but still no slouch in the height department, sped ahead of him and planted herself directly in his path. I was sure they would collide, causing a foul on the red team and, undoubtedly, causing the girl physical harm. In the moment it took to suck my breath in, the boy stopped, pivoted away from the girl, and landed a bounce pass to a teammate who took it up court and scored.
The red team screamed out a victory sound; high fives all around. For a moment the boy and the girl from the blue team stood facing each other in the middle of the court. Her back was to me. He looked down at her with a grim expression, like he was about to call Louie the Fixer to come take care of her. Then his face cracked into an enormous grin. The girl shoved him hard with both hands. She turned so I could see her face. She was smiling. “Jerk,” she said in a casual voice. They walked to their respective benches.
When the game resumed, I decided to leave. It had already been an eventful evening for me and I was tired. I had my hand on the door when I heard a male voice call, “Who dat?” I pushed the door open.
Another voice: “Hey, wait. Where you goin’?”
I turned. The two teams were standing in the middle of the court staring at me. The tall girl raised her hand to her waist and gave me a quick wave. I bent my elbow, hand at my belt, and jerked it at her in response.
A man with a whistle around his neck was walking toward me holding a clipboard in his left hand and extending his right hand, a long-distance handshake. He stopped in front of me, still offering his hand. “I’m Jack.”
I gave his hand a quick shake. “Kate. Sorry to interrupt. I was just leaving.”
He gestured toward the court. “You wanna play? You’re welcome to join in.” He looked down at my strappy black sandals. “Or watch.” He grinned at me.
“Hey, coach, think fast,” someone called.
Jack turned and ducked just in time for me to see a basketball coming full speed toward me. I was about to throw my hands up in front of my face when the ball made contact with my nose. I made a sound like gah and grabbed my nose.
I felt a hand push my forehead back, forcing me to look at the ceiling. I heard Jack’s voice, “Are you okay?” He gave me no time to answer. “Head up. Keeps the blood from going everywhere. I’m going to take you into my office; I have a first-aid kit. Keep your head back.” He took hold of my elbow and started walking. “Look out, guys.” I watched the light fixtures go by as I walked beside him.
I heard a door open. We must have reached his office. “You guys keep playing. I’ll be back.” Jack led me into his office and eased me into a chair. I stared at a brown water stain on the ceiling.
I heard rummaging, and then Jack was beside me, pressing white gauze to my nose. I tried to straighten my neck, but Jack pressed down on my forehead again. “Just keep your neck bent like that. It’ll help stop the bleeding.”
I reached up and touched the side of my nose. “Ouch.” My voice sounded nasal. I offered a pathetic smile.
Jack lifted the gauze from my face. “I think it’s okay. The bleeding, I mean.”
I straightened my neck, waiting for blood to rush down my nasal passages. It didn’t. I looked around.
The cinder-block walls of the office were painted institutional gray. The furniture consisted of a metal frame desk with a chipped tabletop. Behind the desk was an old office chair you’d expect to see in the steno pool, and a white mini fridge. I was sitting on one of two orange plastic molded chairs. A metal four-drawer filing cabinet sat in the corner. Posters of basketball players in various poses of action or victory were taped to the walls. The room was surprisingly quiet considering its proximity to the gym.
“Thirsty?” he asked, pulling two bottles of water out of the fridge. He thrust the bottle at me.
I caught it. “Thanks.” I held the cool bottle to the side of my nose. “Ah, that’s better.”
Jack sat on the steno chair, propped his feet up on the desk, and leaned back until he was nearly horizontal. He smiled and then tipped the water bottle back and drained its contents in several loud gulps.
I uncapped my water and took a self-conscious sip. “I’m feeling better. Thanks for your help.” I felt embarrassed for bleeding in front of a stranger. “I should get going.” I reached down for my purse. It wasn’t there. I must have dropped it when I was hit with the ball.
Jack swung his feet off the desk and sat up. “I’m sorry about what happened. Big Tim and me, we have this thing. Every once in a while, he yells ‘think fast’ and throws a ball at me. Each time I duck, and the ball goes sailing over my head. He thinks it’s hilarious.”
I recapped my water and raised an ironic eyebrow. “Hilarious.”
Jack spread his hands out in front of him in a helpless gesture. “Tim has developmental delays. He isn’t always the best judge of when it’s appropriate to chuck a ball at me and when it’s not. He didn’t mean to hurt you. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. My nose throbbed. “It’s okay. Just one of those things, I guess.” I thought about it for a second, then mumbled, “Kinda par for the course, lately.”
Jack propped his chin up with his right hand. “Huh?”
I shrugged. “Oh nothing.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
I flashed a halfhearted smile. “No.”
“Ah, a woman of mystery.”
A laugh pushed its way out of my mouth. “Nothing as interesting as that.” I stood up and grabbed the doorknob. “Thanks for helping me with the …” I looked down and saw splatters of red on my blouse. “Blood.”
I opened the door and walked straight into Big Tim’s chest. “Oof,” I said. It seemed he had been listening at the door. A quick peek behind him showed me that he hadn’t been alone. I blinked at the group of kids as they all suddenly thought of something else to do and wandered off to do it. All except Big Tim.
I stepped back into the office and looked up at him. He held my purse up. “Sorry I creamed you with a ball. You dropped your purse.”
I took my purse from him and smiled. “Thanks, Big Tim.” I glanced back at Jack. “Nice meeting you.” I touched my nose. “Well, mostly nice meeting you.”
Jack grinned and gave a shrug. “Anytime you get beaned with a ball …”
I shook my head. “How embarrassing.” I walked out of the office and across the gym, still shaking my head.
“Hey!”
I turned to see Big Tim holding a basketball out to me. “Do you play? Wanna shoot some hoops?”
I held my foot up for him to see. “Wrong footwear, sorry. Maybe some other time.”
Big Tim’s face broke open in a toothy grin. “Great. When? Tomorrow?”
Jack stood in the doorway of his office, leaning against the doorjamb, his face an open question. I turned my gaze back to Big Tim. “I can’t tomorrow, sorry.”
“Okay. How about the next day?”
Jack sauntered over and patted Big Tim’s arm. “Hey, buddy, Kate was just popping in for today only. A one-day deal. Okay?” Jack lifted his head and hollered to the group, “We have time for a quick one. Team up, everyone.” He looked at me. “But you are welcome to come back anytime.”
I gave a you-never-know shrug. “Sorry I interrupted the game.” I pushed the gym door open.
“Hey, lady, Jack’s friend,” said Big Tim. I turned and looked at him. “Next time bring your basketball shoes.”
I raised my hand in a quick salute. “Right.”