Tuesday Night Miracles (19 page)

21

The Green Dot

K
it is alone so much of the time that she has started talking to herself. The conversations are more like quiet mumblings. She supposes that this is what happens to lots of people when their lives are thrown up into the air and then land in a million different places or get stuck on the ceiling fan.

“Geeze,” she says, wiping off the kitchen counter for the third time that morning. “How did I ever have time to do anything when I worked and had a real life?”

Kit hates how her days have dissolved into a boring routine that revolves around the three main events in her life: Peter coming and going, the next mysterious assignment from Dr. Bayer, and a potential phone call from her faraway daughter.

She hasn’t so much been living during the past few months as existing, and she’s been lying through her teeth to her husband about what she does all day. She tells him she’s looking for work, making calls, taking care of things that she’s never had time to take care of before, but mostly she’s not doing any of that.

Mostly she’s playing around on the computer, sleeping too much, eating junk food, watching daytime television, and fertilizing her paranoia by ignoring anything that might help her move in a positive direction. She’s too embarrassed about what she’s done to call any of her friends.

One glance around the kitchen, which never really has a chance to get cluttered or dirty because Peter has been working so much and their daughter—well, who knows when they will see her again. Sarah’s off living her own dream, but Kit can’t help but think her temper and her possessiveness have helped drive her only child away.

“It’s normal for a grown daughter to leave home, Kit,” Peter has told her at least twenty times. “Stop being so hard on yourself. You’re bad, baby, but not that bad.”

Kit stands in front of the refrigerator for a moment and tries to remember the last time she had a conversation with Peter that lasted longer than ten minutes. A meal together? Was it two weeks ago? Three?

Kit does think about Ronnie and how reconnecting has added something wonderful to her life. There’s that and her new comedy-club pal, Val. But there’s only so much relationship energy right now, and she’s thinking she needs all that energy for herself. And what if she really is just an angry middle-aged woman who’s a bad friend?

Kit pushes herself away from the refrigerator and wonders if something has possessed her. Maybe some evil person cast a spell on her and made her angry and overreactive all the time. Maybe it’s the tail end of menopause biting her in the ass and then swimming up through her mouth.

During these long and always quiet mornings, Kit can’t even imagine what she’s going to do the rest of the day. She decides to head back upstairs and make the bed, maybe clean out the bathroom sink. Boy, that will be a pretty exciting morning.

She makes it as far as Sarah’s bedroom door when she is struck with such a pang of loneliness and aloneness that she staggers just a bit. “Oh, Sarah,” she whispers into her hands.

Even though she has promised herself over and over that she won’t call her daughter, that she will let Sarah be, let her live her life, let her come home when she’s ready, Kit walks down to her bedroom and picks up the telephone beside the bed.

Next to the bed just in case Sarah calls at night. Just in case she needs her mother.

Kit dials and her call immediately goes into voice mail.

“It’s your mom. Just checking.”

She hangs up.

Then she dials again.

“I mean, you could call. Sometime. Just a call.”

The house is so quiet that Kit can hear the people next door talking in the kitchen, which faces her bedroom. People talking and living and enjoying each other. Isn’t that just absolutely wonderful?

Kit stands for a second to look out the window. She keeps the phone in her hand. The neighbors probably hate her the way everyone else hates her. Sarah must
really
hate her. Peter always told her during Sarah’s teenage years that she was too hard, too overprotective. Too everything.

But isn’t that what a mother is supposed to do? Isn’t a mother supposed to make sure that her daughter is never harmed, that her daughter is safe and protected? No matter what? No matter who?

Kit suddenly wishes she had a private assignment from Dr. Bayer. Maybe that woman would have her bake a cake or go sing to the monkeys at the zoo, anything but sit in this room with a phone in her hand feeling sorry for herself yet again. Kit looks at the phone and then sets it down. Dr. Bayer would be appalled.
She
should be appalled.

Forget about Jesus. What would Dr. Bayer tell her to do?

There’s the happy-face log, but something has to happen before she can write in it.

Kit starts bouncing on the bed as if she’s a bored little girl locked in her room. Well, why not bake a cake? She jumps up, forgets about the phone call, and within thirty minutes the entire kitchen looks as if a bomb went off. There is flour everywhere, and Kit is actually whistling.

Then she takes a risk, boldly calls Val, and invites her over for coffee and cake, and can’t believe it when Val doesn’t even hesitate but says, “I’ll be right over.”

22

The Red Dot

T
he one afternoon Jane dares to sit down in the living room and turn on the television, it’s like National I Love My Girlfriend Day. This female-friendship thing has gotten way out of hand. Every talk show she flips to has some woman or a group of women talking about girlfriend getaways, shopping trips, the helping hands of sisterhood. It’s like a flipping lovefest.

Jane was feeling pretty snappy until she took a break from job searching, real-estate comparisons, and online browsing of the latest winter fashions that she could no longer afford to buy. She was even drinking tea, which didn’t taste half bad.

Is this what the world has come to? All this junk on television, with even the male talk-show hosts who have to jump in and talk about how they wish they had the wonderful kinds of relationships their wives had with their girlfriends? What is wrong with these idiots? Guys want boyfriends like girlfriends?

“Grow up,” she snarls, switching channels and looking into her teacup.

Jane wonders what her mother would think of her sipping tea in the afternoon while still wearing her pajamas and one of Derrick’s old bathrobes. She has taken to wearing as few clothes, and changing as seldom as is humanly possible to save on dry-cleaning costs. When she had to dismiss the young woman who came to do her wash, clean, and stock the refrigerator—pretty much everything most other women do all the time—it was as if she had to learn how to function as a domestic adult again.

Washing dishes, sweeping the floor, changing sheets, washing clothes and ironing, for the love of God! The first time Derrick caught her in the bathroom on her hands and knees, he laughed. Laughed!

“I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen you do this,” he snorted, bending over.

“This is funny?” Jane said, staying on her knees.

“Well, I usually see you in high heels and carrying a leather briefcase. This is a new side of you I never knew existed.”

Jane dipped her rag into the bucket, made sure it was soaked in ammonia water, and threw it at his face. She had a good aim.

Derrick screamed, dropped to his knees, and begged her for some water. “I can’t see! My eyes are burning!”

After she cleaned him up, unsmiling and still pissed, he never said another word. Actually, he rarely speaks to her at all lately. Jane doesn’t feel as if she should or has to apologize for being edgy, for feeling like a failure, for being jealous of his success. Like he would scrub the floors if he lost his job. Right.

She finally can’t stand it any longer, pushes the off button, and then sits with her empty teacup in her silent living room wondering what in the world she’s going to do next. She’s sick of the computer, and the only thing on her schedule for days and days is yet another Tuesday-night anger meeting or another hike in the woods or trip to the YWCA. Who knows what that Dr. B. woman will make her do next.

When the phone buzzes and she answers it, without checking to see who it is, she is immediately sorry.

“Jane, is that you? It’s Kathy Hanon. Remember me? From that real-estate class years and years ago?”

Jane slams her coffee cup down on the table, closes her yes, and almost wishes she were scrubbing the bathroom floor. Did Kathy get the girlfriend memo? What the hell?

“It’s me,” she snaps.

“I’m so glad you have the same number after all these years. How are you?”

Jane wants to snort into the phone. Wouldn’t that be special? Wouldn’t it be special if she told this woman how she really is and what she’s wearing and what her life looks like right now? Kathy would love it.

“I’m fine. Why are you calling?”

Kathy hesitates for a second—she clearly expected a warmer welcome.

“Jake and I are flying into Chicago for a convention and it made me think of you. That’s all.”

Jake.

The lively, tall, and terribly handsome man who was dating her beautiful co-worker named Kathy all those years ago. Kathy, who assumed that Jane was her friend and who was constantly boasting about Jake’s devotion and how she knew he was going to propose any day now. Jake, who had been so easy to seduce and who actually cried when he realized what a fool he had been to cheat with a woman who was clearly using him. A grown man crying!

Jane didn’t want to cry, but she never, ever did anything like that again. She couldn’t bring herself to go to their wedding, never understood why Kathy kept trying to contact her, why she cared so much, why anyone in the entire world would even want to be in the same room with her, let alone be her friend.

Jane barely knew the meaning of the word
friend
. She surely didn’t know how to be a friend, and it was hard for her to even imagine picking up the phone, like Kathy, and calling someone out of the blue like this, from so long ago, from those old days, from a time when she maybe was even worse than she is now.

What would Kathy say or do if Jane told her? She can hear Kathy breathing and waiting for some kind of reply. Is she still thin and beautiful and smart? Is she still a top-seller with the best commercial company in the country?

Jane wants to say something. She tries to open her mouth but has no idea where to start. How do you do this? She is half tempted to switch the television set back on, but instead she rises slowly, frantically looks around the living room for some kind of answer, and then she simply presses the end button on the phone.

Then she tucks the cellphone under the couch and immediately feels absolutely empty and lost, which astounds her. What is happening to her? Damn that Dr. Bayer!

Moments later, Jane finds herself upstairs rummaging through her underwear drawer. Then she pulls out the pine bough she found on the day of her hike, stands in the middle of the closet smelling it, and immediately feels much, much better.

23

A Shot in the Dark

L
eah was the first one to get the email. She waited her turn at the computer table, settled her son and daughter with a book, and eagerly logged in to check her messages.

Dear Hopefully Happy Hearts,

This week our meeting will not be held at the Franklin Building. Please meet at the regular time at 89 South Fourth Street in Boswell. Boswell is just south of Ellington, and you will be looking for a large blaze-orange (you can’t miss this even in the dark) metal building that is the second building on your right in the Boswell Industrial Park. Please wear tennis shoes, jeans, or sweatpants, a warm jacket, and some light gloves if you have a tendency to get cold easily.

Kit, I am asking you to do me a big favor and swing by the shelter, five blocks from your house—I’m sure you know where it is, even if the location is a secret except in your neighborhood—and pick up Leah at 6:30. If you can’t do this, call me. Everyone else plan on being at the Boswell address at 7
P.M
. As always, be on time. See you then. And, yes, you must bring your journals, and I expect them to be overflowing with moments of great joy!

Very sincerely,

Dr. Bayer

Leah reads the email three times before she’s ready to relinquish her spot in front of the old computer. Where in the world were they going, and what were they going to do when they got there? Leah hates the fact that she has to ride with Kit. She doesn’t want to bother anyone or make anyone feel sorry for her. She was hoping for a private assignment. Trying to guess what’s going to happen next with Dr. Bayer is almost impossible. But in many ways this is not just about her.

She turns before leaving the computer and quietly watches her son and daughter read. Aaron is barely past the little-boy stage, but at age eight he has already witnessed more than most adults. Jessie is two years older, and her dark, sad eyes tell a story that Leah has vowed to try to erase.

She can’t look at her children without feeling a rush of emotion that can only be described as a mixture of pain and pleasure. She knows with all certainty that they are the single reason she remains alive, and during that horrific moment when she took all her own pain and lashed out with it at her children she had a clear vision of hell.

All those years of pain, years when she would have given almost anything to have what the three other women in her anger class have and have probably taken for granted all their lives: a support system. At least one person you know who loves you for who you are at this very moment, and not for who he or she hopes you can become. A warm house. Safety. Clothes. A full stomach. One entire night of peaceful sleep. And dreams.

Dreams
.

The thought too of her own dreams, once so vivid and possible, grip her at the very center of her heart and Leah hesitates for a moment, and turns back to the computer to keep herself from showing any emotion that may be perceived as negative. She must try harder, be stronger, listen more intently to Dr. Bayer and her own counselor, who has warned her to slow down.

But there isn’t enough time for everything. There is never any time. Another woman is standing next to her, pushing softly but urgently on her arm. “Are you done, sister? Can I please use the computer?”

Leah turns toward the woman, raises her head, manages to smile, and ushers her children back to the safety of their small room.

Tuesday arrives and Kit is relieved when she pulls in front of the women’s shelter and sees that Leah is already waiting for her out front. While Leah walks to the car, Kit notices two children waving wildly from the window next to the door.

“Are those your kids?” she asks when Leah gets into the car.

Leah turns, sees them waving, and waves back.

“Those are my babies, yes.”

“They look adorable,” Kit says honestly, watching as the two children make monkey faces at their mother. “Do they know where you’re going?”

“I don’t even know where I’m going. Do you know?”

Kit laughs.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m honest with them,” Leah responds, hooking her seat belt. “I told them I have to learn how to control myself, and that a wonderful doctor was helping me and three other women so we could become better people, better mothers.”

Kit is taken aback. Even though she has spent more than a few hours questioning her own worth as a mother, she’s seeing a side of Leah that is powerful, more powerful and insightful, than anything in her own world. Leah is so much younger than she is and apparently so much smarter, at least about raising children. Sarah has probably thrown her cellphone into the ocean to keep her mother from calling her ten times a day.

“I think it’s hopeless for me,” Kit says quietly as they head out of town toward their mystery destination. “My baby can make her own baby. I’m not sure we’re destined to be best friends. She lives on an island very far from Chicago.”

“It’s never too late,” Leah says forcefully. “Your daughter is going to need you the rest of her life, Kit. I would have given anything, absolutely anything, to have a mother who loved me the way I love my children.”

Kit suddenly feels as if someone has hit her in the back of her head with a hammer. She clams up. The wisdom of youth is overwhelming and very true.

When Kit doesn’t respond, Leah turns to look out the window. Neither of the women says anything for several minutes. But Leah wants to keep talking.

“Have you thought about where we might be going?”

“It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Me, too! This Dr. B. is something. I’m always a little on edge wondering what clues she’s going to send me next.”

“It is pretty interesting in, well, a weird sort of way. I wouldn’t be surprised if we end up in a caged room after last week.”

“It’s not easy sometimes to move forward, but Dr. Bayer’s smart. I don’t want to be the old Leah ever again.”

Kit can only wonder what the rest of Leah’s story might be like. She does not want to ask her, does not want to get involved, does not want to know more than she already knows. That is what she tries to convince herself as they leave the city limits and head toward Boswell.

The silence between them thickens. Leah realizes that Kit isn’t going to open up. Her life is probably filled with dozens of friends and relatives whom she can confide in. Why would she confide in Leah? Traffic thins out the farther they go, and finally Kit manages to ask Leah to help her look for the industrial park.

“I don’t know you really,” Leah says suddenly to clear the air, as they spot the entrance to the industrial park and immediately see the blaze-orange building. “But I’m learning that it’s important to be happy and to have no regrets.”

“I know that,” Kit snaps, feeling embarrassed by her own inadequacies.

“I’m not a loser because I live in the shelter right now,” Leah says, eager to get out of the car, and assuming that Kit doesn’t like her because the conversation hasn’t exactly been nonstop.

“I don’t think that.”

“Yes, you do,” Leah fires back as Kit parks the car. “It feels like you all do. No one plans on moving into a shelter or being abused, for God’s sake. I see the way you all look at me. I’m not blind and I’m not stupid.”

Kit reaches out to touch Leah on the arm. “I don’t think that way, Leah. I think we’re all scared. We might seem like big girls, but I have to tell you I feel like I’m still wearing training pants.”

Leah giggles. She can picture Kit standing by the bathroom door in pink plastic underwear. “Really?”

“Really.”

“No matter what happens in there, let’s just have fun,” Kit suggests.

“I’ve been thinking that might be a big part of everything anyway,” Leah shares as they get out of the car. “Either that or Dr. B. is a crazy nut.”

“Let’s go for the fun.”

As they walk toward the gaudy orange building, it dawns on Kit that Leah is wearing the same clothes she wore at the last meeting. Kit realizes that Leah probably has nothing else to wear. Does she work? Does she have anyone besides the missing mother to help her? Does she need help?

“What is wrong with me?” Kit asks herself as Leah disappears into the building.

Before she can turn the car back on and escape, Kit sees Grace, and then Jane, pull into the parking lot next to her car. One by one, and alone, the women walk toward the building. Even though they can clearly see each other no one says a word.

As the women file into the building, they look up at almost the same moment and stare at a sign, shaped like a huge cannon, that hangs directly above the door. Apparently they are now entering something called Bob’s Home on the Range. Kit can hear Jane say, “You have got to be kidding me” as she steps into a large entryway.

The dimly lit room has a concrete floor, a small desk, and a display case that stretches along the entire left side of the room.

“Guns?” all four of the women say at the exact same time.

“What is this place?” Jane asks, spinning in a circle.

Just then Dr. Bayer walks into the room, trailed by a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard who is wearing a red-and-black checkered flannel shirt. Could this be Bob, and if it is Bob who in the world is he and what are they going to do with him?

“I see everyone landed perfectly,” Dr. Bayer says, smiling. She’s wearing a green hooded sweatshirt, black jeans, and some very white tennis shoes. “Kit, thank you for picking up Leah.”

“What is this place?” Jane asks, throwing her hands into the air.

Dr. Bayer imagines that Jane was the kind of grade-school student who made her teachers question their chosen profession. She probably micromanaged the crayons, recess line, and organized students during hot lunch so she got to eat first.

Jane, and her abrasive personality, intrigue Olivia for more than one reason. She is certainly irritating, and if she were not a client Dr. Bayer would probably run screaming from her immediately. But as a psychologist Dr. Bayer has always been fascinated by men and women who have an unyielding need to cloak their inadequacies in bravado, smart-ass comments, and what she calls “the first-in-line” syndrome.

She’d love to get Jane in private therapy and work the hell out of her. There has to be more than one underlying reason why Jane acts, well, like Jane. Dr. Bayer assumes Ms. Jane has gotten away with bad behavior for a very long time. Where, oh where, does it spring from?

Dr. Bayer also knows that if she doesn’t verbally kick Jane in the shins and get her to focus they’re both going to be in trouble.

“Jane, I would love to tell you what this place is and why we’re here if only you’ll give me a chance,” Dr. Bayer says, with her hands on her hips.

“Sor-ry!” Jane says sarcastically, and takes a step back.

Dr. Bayer locks eyes with Jane and then introduces Bob to the women. He’s the owner and head instructor at Bob’s Home on the Range. Bob chuckles when Dr. Bayer says the name of his business.

“Sorry about the name, ladies,” he says laughing. “I wanted to be a cowboy when I was a little boy and it turns out I’m terrified of horses. This is the only way I can get close to that dream.”

Bob is a former Marine sharpshooter who also happens to be an orthopedic surgeon. Go figure. This information manages to give even Jane pause. She has no idea what to say. Bob looks like a guy who shoots guns.

Leah is grinning. Kit is afraid to look at anyone.

“Serious?” Grace wants to know. “Do you have privileges at Memorial Hospital? I work there. Don’t know if I’ve ever seen you.”

“I’m a full professor at the medical college and only sit in on the most unusual and difficult cases,” he tells her.

Kit can’t help herself. “I suppose that comes in handy in case anyone breaks a leg if their rifle backfires.”

“Good one,” Dr. Bob chuckles. “Actually, this is like my big hobby house, but a lot of what happens here is serious. We train police officers and run weapons programs for various branches of the government. We do youth safety classes, and you might be surprised to learn that the women enrolled in our classes now outnumber the men.”

“Self-defense?” Grace has several friends who have taken classes following near-violent attacks.

Dr. Bob explains that some of the women come in so they can learn how to use a weapon for protection, but they also come in because shooting is a sport, a challenge, and something many of them were never allowed to do when they were growing up.

Kit can relate to this. Her father never asked her if she wanted to learn how to shoot a gun, offered to take her hunting, or included her in the dozens of trips and male-bonding sessions that she would have loved to have attended.

Her brothers would come home with lusty tales of late-night card games at their uncle’s northern Wisconsin cabin, tracking deer for hours through thick brush and across fields that had been dusted with snow, and target-practice sessions just before dusk against the back fence. She understood about male bonding, but she at least wanted to be asked and wasn’t thrilled to stay home and put up Christmas decorations while her brothers were having so damn much fun.