Tuesday Night Miracles (9 page)

“This is what’s funny,” she grumbles, wishing that Dr. Bayer was walking next to her so she could tell her what else she’s thinking. “I can’t believe this.”

The next shock comes when she discovers that the pub is packed. Is funny in? There are men and women at all the tables, and there’s a small stage set up at the front of the room, where she remembers a pool table the last time she was out having fun, about fifteen years ago. She slips into the end seat at the bar and can’t even remember what she drank when she went out.

“Wine?” she asks the bartender.

“This is a red, white, and pink kind of bar. So maybe if you drink wine you should have a beer or a cocktail. Want me to surprise you?”

“Sure,” she says, imagining something that has more sugar in it than she consumes in three weeks.

He’s back fast, with a tall glass filled with who knows what, and there’s not an umbrella decoration in sight.

“What is this?”

“I call it the Thursday Night Killer. It’s a glorified Long Island Iced Tea. It will knock your socks off. You look like you could use a good kick.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Half bad. Your face is all wrinkled, like you’re worried or something. Lighten up, sugar. This female comedian is hilarious. Take a big gulp and prepare yourself.”

Kit salutes him, obeys, and immediately wonders if he isn’t a spy working for Dr. Bayer. Does she look that depressed and lost?

She swivels in her chair and peeks out at the audience. There are tons of people packed into the bar, and she guesses it’s at capacity. Then she notices that some of the people are dressed, well, funny. There’s a man in the corner with a pair of boxer shorts on his head; a guy next to him is wearing a hat shaped like a pickle; three men two tables down are dressed as nuns; there’s a group of women in bathrobes.

She laughs out loud and some of her drink comes out her nose.

The woman sitting next to her passes her a napkin. “Took you long enough.”

“What in the world is going on? Is it trick or treat?”

“There’s a comedy school that comes here all the time. It’s sort of a training ground, and they sometimes get to perform. About three months ago they started dressing up, and now it’s like a contest every Thursday night. Who can look the most stupid.”

Kit laughs for the second time.

“By the way,” the woman says, smiling. “Nice outfit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You look like a housewife.” This from a woman wearing a black T-shirt, old faded jeans, and an orange baseball cap. Swirls of gray hair are sticking out the sides of the hat, there’s no makeup on her smiling face, and she’s clearly at home with herself.

“Are you trying to pick me up?” Kit fires back.

“Good one!” the woman snorts.

“You’re in the club, right?” Kit asks.

The woman nods. “I’m Val and you could be funny, you know. You look sassy. Sassy is always funny.”

Kit smiles and introduces herself.
If she only knew
. And then the show starts and Kit orders another drink, and the evening’s performer pops into view and is introduced by a guy who isn’t so funny. Kit suddenly remembers she’s supposed to be keeping track of how many times she laughs. She’s very tempted to tell the woman next to her why she’s at the bar. My God! These people would have a field day!

She laughs again.

Kit asks for a pen from the bartender, who gives her a thumbs-up as the comedian pushes past an old buffet table, the nuns, and a woman holding a mess of stuffed poodles. The poodles, for some reason, force Kit to run to the bathroom. She’s afraid if she laughs one more time she’s going to pee in her pants. This group would make her get up onstage and show them her wet rear end.

The bathroom is deserted and when she’s finished Kit hurries to the door, but not before she looks into the mirror. She can’t believe she looks that bad. Maybe her laugh lines are eroding because she’s been such a mess for so long. It was so easy to stop dressing like a normal go-to-work person every day. No makeup, days between showers, apparently weeks between public outings. Her inner monologue is interrupted by a huge roar from the barroom, and she runs back out to discover that someone has bought her a drink.

She looks at the bartender, and raises her arms toward the ceiling in a “Who did this?” gesture, and the bartender points to two men at the far end of the bar. They smile and wave at her, and she has absolutely no idea who they are.

Kit’s laugh this time starts below her knees and rockets through her entire body. She wants to stop it, because she doesn’t want to offend the guys, who must think she’s available. Available? She doesn’t even want herself! Kit manages to smile, and then turns her head and is absolutely relieved when the woman next to her snorts again and then winks.

She leans over and gets close to Kit’s ear. “They come in here all the time and try and pick someone up. It’s hilarious. I say enjoy the drink and don’t make eye contact.”

Kit thanks her and then focuses on the show, but it’s hard to concentrate. She wants to look around, see if there are more poodles or someone dressed up like Santa Claus, and now that she knows she shouldn’t look at those guys who bought her drinks that’s all she wants to do.

Which makes her laugh again.

Guys picking her up? Laughing? She knows that she’s supposed to be focusing on the show, but she’s suddenly thinking about Dr. Bayer. Perhaps she is some kind of magical intuitive, maybe even a witch, who can simply look at people and see what they need. There’s also all those court records and documents she had to fill out, but also there’s the obvious. Kit does look depressed and sad, because she has been in that state of mind for a long time. It’s been impossible for her to see through the fog of her own life and past the present so that she can create a new place in life for herself.

She catches herself laughing again, because she’s pretty sure sitting at the local bar with costumed adults isn’t where she needs to be. This is when Val pokes her and says, “Hey, you’re the only one laughing. Shut up or they’ll make you get up there.”

Kit clamps her hand over her mouth and puts her head down.
Focus! Focus! Focus!
She mouths “Thank you” to her comedian comrade, grabs her drink, pushes her elbows back onto the bar, crosses her legs, and does exactly what the good doctor ordered.

Two hours later, and a bit tipsy, she accepts a ride home from her new friend Val. Kit promises to meet her next week for more fun with strange people. Then Kit stumbles into the kitchen and barely makes it to the bathroom, where the mere thought of the past few hours makes her laugh yet again.

And listening to her own laughter bounce off the walls makes her realize that she hasn’t said a bad word or thought about her brother or anything horrid since she started working on her assignment.

The Blue Dot

It’s Sunday afternoon and Grace is trying not to have a nervous breakdown. She’s been running through her house for several hours, trying to figure out what she can do to fulfill Dr. Bayer’s class requirement, because once the day is over there won’t be a free moment until who knows when.

“I’m not a dumbass,” she mumbles to herself the moment Kelli walks in the door. “I am not a dumbass!”

“Mom, are you okay?”

Grace jumps a foot into the air. She didn’t hear her daughter come back into the house. She absolutely doesn’t want her even near the house. Grace is driving herself crazy thinking about something lovely that she enjoys doing alone. She also knows that thinking about it is half the point. But, still, it’s a point that is eluding her.

“I’m fine,” she lies, walking back into the kitchen.

Kelli has been so nice lately that Grace is a bit worried. This usually means something’s going on that she doesn’t know about but should. Is there anything bad left to happen? Shoot. Maybe just sitting alone in a dark closet and trying not to imagine every possible flaw in her offspring would qualify for the assignment.

Grace has actually gotten herself a bit depressed on her only day off this week by trying to remember what it was like when she did things. Things that had nothing to do with raising children, work, or beating herself up over past mistakes. Things that were fun and made her happy and helped her forget this miserable hole she has dug around herself.

“I’m twirling,” she’s been telling herself since last Tuesday, when she opened the envelope. “It’s like spinning in one circle after another so I don’t have to focus.”

“Earth to Mom. Hello?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“That’s not big news, Mom. Are you okay?”

“Fine, Kelli, just fine.”

Kelli looks at her in disbelief.

“You don’t look fine. Can I do anything?” she asks, hoping her mother says no.

Grace almost tells her, but then she looks at the stack of books Kelli is carrying and realizes that her daughter has her own world of tasks and problems. She shakes her head, and Kelli turns to leave but then grabs a plastic bag out of her purse that looks as if it’s been jammed inside a tiny jar.

“Oh, this is from Cassie’s mom. Remember her? You two used to sit around and do this stuff when Cassie and I were playing. She said it’s been at her house for, like, years or something. What is this stuff called again?”

The second Grace peeks into the bag her heart stops. “Oh, Kelli! Thank you. Oh! This is it! It’s my needlepoint!”

“Mom, I can’t remember the last time I saw you needlepointing,” Kelli says, startled by her mother’s exuberance. “It’s needlepoint. Not a piece of gold.”

“I’ve been looking for this all day and I didn’t even know it,” Grace says, unable to take her eyes off the tapestry.

“Mom, I’m really happy for you,” Kelli says, giggling.

Grace looks up for a moment. She loves it when Kelli giggles. Now that Kelli is no longer a little girl but a beautiful, dark-haired, mostly self-assured young woman, she misses all the little-girl parts of her daughter that have seemed to disappear.

Grace thinks quickly. “This is going to sound absolutely stupid, but if I give you ten bucks will you go grab a friend and go out someplace and then come back in three hours?”

Kelli laughs so hard that she drops her books. “This must be really special needlepoint, Mom.”

“You have no idea. Someday when you’re a big girl I’ll tell you all about it.”

Kelli lets out a screech as if she is a wild animal, grabs the money, and runs out the door. “Score! I’m off to hunt for more needlepoint.”

Grace quickly locks the doors, turns off her cellphone, and tries to remember if there is any wine in the house. She should have asked Kelli. She discovers a cold bottle of something that looks white behind the orange juice, pours herself a full glass, and then heads to the one piece of furniture in the house that she actually loves.

It’s her grandma’s rocker. Ironically, it was a wedding gift, but it’s as if all the memories buried inside it wrap themselves around her when she sits in the chair, which she has done less and less every year. And the moment she sits down Grace gets the whole point of what she’s doing, what the doctor ordered, what must be part of some of the most interesting therapy she has ever witnessed. She sits back, stretches out her legs, sets her glass down on the table next to her, and instantly realizes this isn’t going to be as easy as it might seem.

It is so hard for Grace to relax that she has to fight the urge to get up and do something because, well, sitting and sipping wine and whatever happens after that isn’t something important. Even though she knows better, even as she thinks about how her legs feel fabulous, and the wine tastes delicious and really, for a while anyway, there isn’t a thing to worry about, Grace fights it.

Then she starts to rock, and the movement begins to pull her into a place that feels familiar and comforting. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Years of rocking and babies and stories start to rumble up from the old wooden legs, into the seat, up the arms, and right into Grace’s mind. Suddenly three hours won’t be enough time. She rocks until she remembers the needlepoint and then stops abruptly.

The bag must be at least ten years old. She can’t remember the last time she worked on needlepoint, especially this one—the one she took with her everywhere when the girls were younger.

She pulls it out slowly, touching the soft strands of yarn, grabbing the last needle she held, which is still threaded with the blue yarn she was using for the background. Grace was working on a landscape, trying hard to create a place she wanted to visit, stitching in every spare moment she had. She had this idea that if she finished this piece she might actually be able to go there. She so wanted to take the girls to the ocean.

When Kelli cruises back home exactly three hours later, she finds her mother rocking and needlepointing. There’s an untouched glass of wine sitting next to her, and Kelli tiptoes into the living room, puts her hand on her mother’s arm, and says, “Mom, that’s beautiful.”

Grace looks up, and smiles. Have three hours passed? Already?

“Hey,” she says, stopping to put her hand on Kelli’s arm. “Have you ever wanted to go to the ocean?”

Then the most amazing thing happens. They don’t argue and Kelli doesn’t immediately go to her room. Kelli sits down and they talk. Grace rocks. They keep talking, and when Kelli’s cellphone rings and Grace gets up she takes the needlepoint with her. There’s so much work to do, Grace tells herself, but now there’s also an ocean that needs to be finished.

11

Whiskey A-Go-Go

P
hyllis has decided to move off her throne at the end of the bed and join Olivia in the big beige living-room chair.

The devoted cocker has thirteen-year-old hips that hurt almost as much as Olivia’s, so Livie, as her friends and family often call her, has placed a soft round pillow next to her reading chair so that the dog can keep her company without much pain.

Phyllis is just about as stubborn as the woman she was named after—Livie’s beloved mother, who also had a mind of her own. Phyllis the dog comes and goes as she pleases. Even if Livie is lonely and summons her to the living room, Phyllis gets there when she feels like it. Occasionally, she doesn’t bother to leave the bedroom.

When Phyllis was a puppy, Livie started talking to her as if she were a person, especially when she sat in her beige chair and sifted through files for the next day’s appointments.

Phyllis is a pretty good listener for a dog. But even Phyllis has her limits. Livie has gotten into the habit of speaking out loud, more often if she has a tough case, and sometimes Phyllis looks up at her as if to say, “Shut it off for a while,” pulls herself up very slowly, looks disgustingly at Livie, and trots away.

But on this Monday night Phyllis is acting as if she is in for the long haul. She’s resting her gray-whiskered face on her light tan paws, flipping her tail back and forth, and listening intently.

And Phyllis is getting an earful.

“These women are something,” Livie begins, grabbing the blue-, green-, and red-dotted files, where the first assignment reports are nestled. “Phyllis, I may be in over my head with this one, but I sure as hell am not going to surrender to any of them without a fight. I know I can do this.”

Phyllis blinks once but decides to stay.

Livie is quiet for a moment as she shuffles through the files and then settles in for a thirty-minute analysis. Her three charges have emailed her their thoughts, as assigned, but it’s obvious that there is still plenty of work to do. Jane gets an A; Livie is actually surprised that she managed so well. She seemed to have a series of experiences during and after the hike that made her think genuinely about what’s important. Grace gets a C. Sure, she rocked and needlepointed, but then she fell right back into thinking she had to run fast through the rest of her day and the one after it.
Grace, shame on you
. Kit will get a B if she really does go back and hang out with her new friend, but until that happens she gets a C, too. Kit got lost in the comic moments, but by the time she sat down to write she was dragging herself through her past yet again.

Girls, girls, girls. We must move forward!

Olivia sets down the files and rewards herself by reaching over to take a small sip from her glass of Jameson eighteen-year-old whiskey. Her nightly drink is her single dose of “medicine.” She has younger friends who gulp down pills for aches, pains, and a variety of suggested deficiencies—all of which, she constantly tells them, could be cured with a small drink every night.

Dr. Bayer is also smart enough to know that her nightly routine is as much a psychological tradition as it is a physical one. She has never been much of a drinker, and the splash or two of alcohol she allows herself does about the same thing a cup of warm milk or some chamomile tea would do to ease her into a good night of sleep.

Tonight she has left the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter for an extra visual dose of courage. She tells this to Phyllis as she shakes the files toward the floor, where her dog is now totally ignoring every single word that Livie says.

“It was my bright idea to put the three of them together like this, and not throw them into a larger anger group. Last week was tough, Phyllis. I took a risk handing them those white envelopes. But I’m determined. I think they want to change, I really do, and I think I can help them find their way home. They might think I’m crazy, but I have to try. Damn it, I do.”

Phyllis cocks her head. She is not fond of swearing, and Livie has tried hard for the past fifty years to wipe her father’s filthy-mouthed influence off her own lips. But sometimes there is absolutely nothing like a
damn, shit
, or
hell
to get your point across.

Livie sets down the files and grabs another folder that is resting on the table next to her. She’s gotten so used to working from this comfy old chair that five years ago she bought a larger side table to hold her files, notebooks, a mess of half-broken reading glasses, and her much-needed glass of whiskey.

The new folder is filled with police reports, photographs, witness statements, and a very bold note written across the top of the last page. It’s from her supervisor:

If you think you’re such a magician I suggest you take on this one as well, Dr. Know-It-All. You can have her for your Tuesday-night marauders. And no, you don’t have a choice
.

Livie lets out a very heavy sigh. “This might be a good time to fall asleep,” she warns Phyllis.

Phyllis lifts her head for a moment, nods as if she completely understands, and then does exactly what Livie suggested.

The folder is very thick, which is always a bad sign. Livie takes a large sip of whiskey and then reads through all the pages. She tries, really tries, to focus on the facts and to leave her emotions resting close to Phyllis. She’s absolutely unsuccessful.

She drops the folder onto her lap so that she can reach down and run her hand across Phyllis’s back. Phyllis likes this part of the file ritual. She has a feeling this is going to be a good night.

“This is now a total mess, Phyllis. What was I thinking, trying all these experiments when I’m so close to the exit sign?”

Phyllis wags her tail very rapidly four times.

“I’m sorry, Phyllis, but I must say a bad word now so prepare yourself.”

Phyllis does not want Livie to stop rubbing her rump, so when Livie says “Shit,” Phyllis does not flinch. But then Livie picks up the file and decides that she must read it again, so she stops petting Phyllis, who remains hopeful that there is no more shit coming. She is a very patient and trusting dog.

While Livie reads, she moves her head back and forth, as if she can’t believe what she’s reading. She reads for a very long time. Then, without warning she says, “Shit, Phyllis.”

“I know, baby,” Livie says as an apology. “I’m sorry, and I know I need to stay calm myself because this is a big deal for me. This is the mother lode of them all.”

Phyllis raises her head again. Two shits in such a short span of time is almost unforgivable. Livie should have put a biscuit into her bathrobe pocket. Who knew this would be a two-shit night?

Phyllis rolls over, and Livie strokes her dog’s belly as she manages to get all the papers back into the file with her other hand. Then she throws the file on the table so that it lands close to all the other Tuesday-night files.

Livie isn’t one to believe in reincarnation—or a life after this one, for that matter—but she does believe that animals have a level of sensitivity that is sometimes absent in humans, especially some of the humans she deals with on a regular basis. She’s utterly convinced that Phyllis is so tuned in to her emotional human vibrations that she sometimes senses things before Livie knows them herself.

And she loves Phyllis beyond reason, but not in the goofy way of people who set up trust funds for their pets’ burial plots, make them wear sweaters, or push them through airports in strollers.

Phyllis is a dog. She’s a sensitive soul who says “I love you” in her own special ways but knows her place even as she wraps Livie around all four of her paws on a daily basis.

“Oh, Phyllis, these women may be the death of me, but I’ve already stepped into the ring,” Livie says. “I’m going to do it; I have to do it.”

She tells Phyllis, who hopes she never stops talking and petting, that she’s going to take on the latest challenge and that she will have her three current charges all come tomorrow night and meet the newest member before she sends them all off on another little adventure. “I’ve got ideas, so many ideas and things I’ve never tried. Maybe this is going to be fun for me, too, eh?”

Livie keeps her hand on Phyllis for a moment as she picks up the folder again. Then she grabs a big marker and puts a black dot right in the center of the file. When she’s done, Livie taps the folder against her leg several times and then lets it rest on top of her lap while she finishes her whiskey and her thoughts gather speed.

“I’m kind of excited and feeling frisky,” she announces as she gets up. “Brace yourself, Phyllis. The girls will think I’m off my rocker.”

Livie glances longingly at the Jameson bottle on the counter, then walks proudly past it with Phyllis on her heels, and knows for certain that she’ll need a very large glass of whiskey tomorrow night.