Tuesday Night Miracles (10 page)

12

Just Deserts

I
n spite of the unusual nature of their anger-management therapy, thus far Grace, Jane, and Kit would all have preferred another assignment from Dr. Bayer instead of what they got: a hard-to-decipher note sent to their email addresses very, very late on Monday night. No one wants to drive back to that horrid building, but then again maybe she’ll have them all skydiving by the end of the month.

They might as well have wished for the moon, which Dr. Bayer would probably have told them is absolutely possible, but instead there was the bold message right at the top of their in-boxes:

Your first assignment is obviously completed. The most interesting thing about life is that so much of it is unpredictable. You must always be prepared. Who knows what might happen? How exciting! Come to class at the usual time. Please wear clothing that is comfortable and disposable—I don’t mean paper or plastic, although that is totally acceptable. I do mean something that can be, well, how should I say this—ruined, I think, is a good word. Class may run a bit longer than it did last week, but there’s also a chance it may not be as long. See what I mean?

Sincerely,

Dr. Bayer.

There is a moment when they each read the message and wonder if Dr. Bayer isn’t smoking an illegal substance. Grace, who works with some of the hospital doctors who do group-therapy sessions, has never heard of anything like this happening. She is also not about to ask any of the others what they think. They would wonder why she’s asking.

Disposable clothing? Grace has on some old green scrubs today that are so disposable she can almost see through them when she holds them up to the light.

She decides to stay at work late on Tuesday and go to the anger meeting without stopping at home so Kelli won’t suspect that she’s at some type of forced weekly gathering, which of course she is. Not that the two of them are communicating much since her needlepointing assignment. They are often like ships passing in the night.

Karen keeps telling her to ease up on her expectations of her daughters, especially Kelli. “She’s not a bad kid, Grace. When was the last time you two did anything together, like go out for lunch or go to the mall?” The little session they had while she was needlepointing already seems as if it never happened.

Had Grace acted like Kelli when she was a teenager—mostly disinterested in anything but her own immediate needs? Always going someplace? Grace has stopped trying to remember. Her world as a teenager was wrapped in bright tissue paper, where true feelings were supposed to be replaced by anything that wouldn’t rock the boat.

Grace has been thinking for a while now, even before the dreaded car incident, about how people are so busy they don’t really care about one another the way they did when time seemed to have a different meaning. She tried to remember the last time she had a conversation with someone that lasted more than five minutes or centered around something besides an immediate need. So on Monday night, well after midnight, she has also baked brownies. Bringing food always works with her own staff, who she knows would eat a dead duck if it were placed on the table, cooked or uncooked. Most people, herself included, cannot resist free food.

When she walks into the drab meeting room, she’s surprised to see Dr. Bayer already seated and glancing through some notes on her lap. Grace notices several large paper bags behind her but doesn’t say a word. She’s afraid to ask.

“Oh,” Grace says, surprised that someone else is so early.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia responds quietly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I was thinking I would be here first, like I was last week. I’m always a little early.”

“That’s a good thing, Grace. It’s very considerate of you.”

“I also made some brownies,” Grace says, holding them out in front of her.

Brownies?

That’s a first, which should really not be a shock. Everything about this group is a first, and possibly a last. In all the years Olivia has led groups, and tried to save lives, and walked up the steps to this room wondering what might happen next, not one person has ever brought brownies. Some people have brought knives and guns. One woman brought her German shepherd because she was terrified of the neighborhood. Last month, a young man brought his mother. Never brownies. What a fabulous idea! It will totally fit in with the evening’s lesson plan.

“How wonderful! Please set them down on the table and we’ll be able to use them during the meeting tonight,” Dr. Bayer says, smiling and pointing toward the back table.

“Sure.” Grace can hardly wait to see what you can do with brownies for anger management. She tucks the aluminum foil around the edges of the pan before putting it down and then awkwardly walks to a chair and takes a seat. Her temples begin to throb immediately. Maybe she needs the sugar rush from the brownies, or maybe she’s scared of what’s going to happen next.

Brownies? What was I thinking, bringing brownies? Maybe she’s going to make us juggle them
. Grace is wondering how to get the entire metal pan inside her purse when she hears someone clicking down the hall. It sounds like Jane. This chick has no boundaries. High heels again?

But it’s not Jane. It’s Kit, and she’s wearing maroon cowboy boots that look as old as the hills they must have ridden over. She slides into the room, skidding when her boots hit the concrete floor, and almost falls backward.

“Whoa!”

She even sounds like a cowgirl.

Dr. Bayer glances up for a moment, smiles, and looks down at her papers. Grace, trying hard not to laugh at the cowgirl image parading around her mind, waves and points to a chair.

Olivia, of course, is listening. She doesn’t need her notes or her pen or to be the greeter. These women could be textbook examples of body language. She’s betting they can’t sit still for more than a minute.

Kit begins tapping her right foot, and twenty seconds later Grace turns to ask her if she had a good week. Both of them are dying to find out what the other had to do for the first assignment. Neither of them dares to ask.

“So-so,” Kit reports. “I’m trying to behave. It’s like a full-time job for someone like me.”

“Oh,” Grace responds, not sure if Kit is serious.

Before either of them can say anything else, Jane appears at the door. She walks in quietly and everyone, including Dr. Bayer, looks at her feet. Black leather pumps have replaced the stilettos. And Jane is walking on her tiptoes.

“Are you okay?” Kit asks this while she’s staring at Jane’s feet.

“Of course, I’m fine,” Jane snaps. “I got stuck behind a bus and thought I might be late. I was being considerate and didn’t want to bother anyone.”

Here we go, Dr. Bayer thinks.

Kit shrugs, and Olivia notices that she’s rolling her fingers into fists, in and out, as she moves her shoulders. These women are much too tense. She has just the solution.

Jane sits down and asks, “Did you start without me?”

“No,” Dr. Bayer says politely. “We’re going to wait a few more minutes.”

Jane looks at her cellphone to check the time, shrugs, sits back, crosses her arms, and waits.

It’s so quiet that all four of them can hear the second hand ticking on the huge white-and-black clock hanging behind Dr. Bayer. Then Kit starts pumping her left boot up and down so that she can keep time with the ticks.

Dr. Bayer waits, because she has a plan. She has the patience of Kit’s Saint Agnes and every other martyr and saint. Once, during another mandatory session, she sat like this for sixty minutes when a group of men didn’t understand the meaning of the word
group
. It was as if they were all in the room alone. She gave them another chance the following week. Then, the week after that, she had them wait for her while she excused herself, called for a police van, had their probation revoked, and threw them all into jail.

She’d do it again, but she doesn’t want to. These women will figure it out, and Olivia tells herself that her plan will help them do just that.

The clock ticks through two more minutes, and finally, thank God, Jesus, Buddha, Jehovah, the sun and moon goddesses and every witch in the world, Dr. Bayer hears what she has been waiting for.

Her three clients turn at the same moment and look toward the door. Someone has been walking very slowly up the hall and is now coming into the room
—their
room.

“Is this the anger-management meeting?”

“Yes, dear,” Dr. Bayer says. “Please, come in.”

Jane, Kit, and Grace follow the woman as if they have choreographed their head movements and they look surprised. This woman looks like an abused drug addict. Forget about the dingy hair that she has pulled back with a rubber band. Forget about the turtleneck sweater that is so old the neck is stretched out and hangs below her collarbones. Forget about the polyester slacks and the dirty tennis shoes.

But do not forget about the bruise that runs down the entire left side of her face, the deep gouges on both of her hands, a scrape that starts below her chin and disappears under the ugly, washed-out beige sweater.

“Sit, please,” Dr. Bayer says, pointing to a chair, while the women continue to stare. “Introduce yourself. Your first name is fine.”

The woman sits back and moves as if she hurts all over or is afraid to relax. When she says her name, “Leah,” she speaks so softly that Jane is not certain what she said.

“Leah? Did you say Leah?” Jane asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? No one has called me ma’am, well, ever.”

Leah doesn’t say another word. She lowers her eyes as Dr. Bayer orders everyone else to share their names. When they finish, Grace asks the question Kit and Jane have been dying to ask.

“She’s in this group now?”

“Yes, she is.”

Dr. Bayer looks at Grace and is absolutely certain she has made the right decision not just about Leah but about what they’re going to do during class. They may all be in the same place for different reasons, but they all need the exact same thing.

Jane can’t imagine even sitting close to this Leah woman. But even as she uncrosses her legs and looks sideways at Leah she feels a swell of compassion for what must have brought her to this place. She looks absolutely terrible, almost as if she just stepped out of a movie where there is a ton of violence. Jane can’t remember the last time she went anywhere without makeup, and she’ll be damned if anyone would ever push her around. This woman looks like a battered child—weak, frightened, alone. Jane imagines what it might be like to reach out with some kind of physical gesture to let Leah know that a small part of her understands. But she still can’t bring herself to do it.

Grace inspects this newcomer clinically at first. She’s obviously been through more than one wringer and it’s as if her entire aura has been dimmed. The poor thing! And whatever she did to bring her to this place—well, does it even matter at this point? Maybe I can do something to help her.

Kit wants to lean over and put her hands on the young woman’s arms, but maybe there are bruises under there, too, and even as she leans just a bit in Leah’s direction she’s already exhausted, and the meeting hasn’t even started. What would happen if she got up, hugged this sad-looking woman, and then sat back down? Kit will never know. She’s praying for the class to go fast, for Jesus to walk in and heal them all, for Dr. Bayer to wave some kind of magic wand. Which is exactly what Olivia is trying to do.

Very quickly, and without hesitation, Dr. Bayer explains that Leah has been briefed on the rules of the group, its goals, and the importance of cooperating and being willing to change. She holds on to the word
change
long enough to look Grace, Kit, and Jane in the eye.

“Before we go any further, let’s grab those tables at the back of the room and set them up,” she says. “Then everyone pull up a chair.”

All four of the women look at one another, back and forth, back and forth like little ducks, and then stand, without saying a word, to set up the tables.

When they sit down again, they look like first graders waiting to hear the teacher speak for the first time. Now what?

Dr. Bayer stifles a laugh. She’d love to see the look on her supervisor’s face when she explains what they’re going to do next. Even though Dr. Bayer has facilitated hundreds of group sessions, she has always thought there could be a better way for some people to open up. Especially women like these, who seem unable to reach out and grasp the strings of laughter, joy, and simplicity that got blown away with their angry words and actions. The strings are still there, dangling so close that Dr. Bayer knows the women can reach them—if only they will try.

“Ladies, we are going to paint birdhouses.”

Jane, Kit, Grace, and Leah lean forward and look at this woman who is supposed to be smart and trained and leading them in anger management as if she’s lost her marbles. She wants them to paint birdhouses?