by Bonnie Grove
In the picture he looked more like a child than I remembered. His face was rounded by lingering baby fat, his hair expertly combed. Freckles I’d never noticed dotted his nose and cheeks. And Tim’s smile, expansive, without a trace of self-consciousness. He looked larger than life, vibrant. And now he’s gone.
All around the fringes of the banner, people had written messages.
Jack came up and stood beside me. Together we silently read the observances to a gunned-down boy; hopeful, sorrowful, angry, even vengeful. People from all over the community—friends, family, strangers—signed their names, their sorrow in indelible ink. My tears flowed freely at the impact of the banner. It was painfully beautiful.
Jack spoke first. “It was Sekeena’s idea. She raised the money to have the banner made. We hosted a day here where people could come and remember Big Tim, sign the banner, and talk about how to reclaim our neighborhoods from violence.”
Still looking at the banner, I said, “What did you write?”
Jack pointed to the bottom right corner. He had written: I’ll see you again, my friend.
He looked at me and put a warm hand on my shoulder. “I called my father.”
I should have been startled by the abrupt change of topic, the mention of The Reverend, but I wasn’t. Looking at Big Tim’s broad smile, I was blanketed by a sad calm. “What did he say?”
He took his hand from my shoulder and ran it through his hair. “He was polite. Distant. But it was a start.” We studied the banner in silence for a moment, then he said, “You’re the reason I called him.”
“You talked about me?”
“No, not yet … I mean, when I visited you the first time at the—” He jerked his thumb at the door, a vague gesture I understood to mean the psychiatric assessment center. “You asked me how I forgave him. It got me thinking.”
“You said you were still working on forgiving him.” I’d thought of his statement many times since. It had made me realize that perhaps forgiveness wasn’t a singular event, but a progression, or better, a dance that took some figuring before you could perform the steps.
Jack stuck his hands into his front pockets. “I decided I was ready to take another stab at it. So I called him. We talked for about ten minutes.” He shrugged. “We didn’t say anything about the past, or the fact we haven’t spoken in years—” He sighed. “I asked how my mom was, how the church was. That sort of thing.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it? When there’s so much to say, you don’t know how to start.”
He tipped his head down and nodded. “Exactly. But I plan to call again. I need to talk to him about what he did to you.”
My heart fluttered. “Don’t, Jack, there’s no need—”
He interrupted. “He needs to be accountable for hurting you, Kate. It’s as simple as that.”
I smiled. “Thank you for saying so.” I turned back to the banner and read more of the messages. Jack handed me a black marker. “Take your time, and when you’re ready, we’ll talk about your new career at Glen Hills.” He winked and then walked across the gym.
“Career” was an exaggeration, but today was my first day serving the three hundred hours of community service portion of my one-year probation. The judge also allowed a continuation of the restraining order Donna Walsh had against me. Apparently I needed to take a tape measure everywhere I went in case I bumped into her. One hundred fifty feet, and no closer. She hardly needed to worry. I had no desire to go anywhere near her.
I fiddled with the marker, wondering what I could add to the banner, what I could say that hadn’t already been expressed. When we met, he went out of his way to invite me, include me in the game. His smile was constant and infectious. He was one of those rare people who never gave a thought about who you were, what you had done, or if you fit in. He simply wanted you to join in, to be included.
I pulled the cap off the pen and wrote not a message to Big Tim, but a prayer to whomever might read it: Let me live as he did—loving others, connected.
Later that evening I arrived ten minutes early to group therapy. I switched on the lights and felt butterflies spasming in my stomach. It had been more than a month since I’d last been there, and while I was there partly because the conditions of my probation required me to attend, I was glad to be back, to have a second chance with them. I’d spent so much time with this group, listening, watching, but not reaching out. Tonight I planned to change that.
I stood by the door pulling at my red cotton shirt and craning my neck to see if anyone was coming down the hall.
Janice was the first to arrive, and I smiled and waved at her in greeting. She gave me a blank look and then said, “Oh, it’s you. Back again, I see.” She brushed by me and took a seat in the circle of chairs in the middle of the room. Mimi arrived next, with Bobby hot on her heels.
Mimi danced around me in greeting. “I’m so thrilled you’ve taken such a positive step by returning to our little group,” she said, sounding like a shrill imitation of Laura-Lea. Bobby stood so close to her, it was hard to tell where she ended and he began. He touched her every few seconds as if he was afraid she might fly away if left unattended. Clearly I had missed something while I had been away. I wondered what else had changed. Bobby and Mimi sailed across the room in a sort of bizarre two-headed waltz and chose chairs next to each other, across from Janice who was busy ignoring them.
Laura-Lea flew into the room ranting about traffic and how it was enough to cause anyone to develop an emotional imbalance. She patted me on the arm in a distracted, adorable sort of way. She didn’t seem surprised to see me. I supposed Dr. Alexander must have called her and told her I was coming tonight. That I was mandated, forced to attend. I pushed the thought from my mind. No, tonight I was going to focus on sharing my story, on contributing to the group, not isolating myself from them with fear.
Laura-Lea leaned in close and purred, “I’m going to have to really, really insist you open tonight’s session by telling your story.” She pouted, letting me know she was really, really serious. I nodded and she squeezed my arm.
Moments later Grace flitted into the room and threw her arms around my neck. I had to bend down to hug her, she was so short. “The prodigal has returned,” she said, beaming.
I was genuinely happy to see her. “Yes, I’m back.”
Grace took my hand. “Good. Come sit by me.”
Richard and Malcolm arrived moments later. Richard’s arm draped around Malcolm’s shoulders in a sort of aggressive buddy hold; he was in the middle of what seemed to be a complicated story about the ethics of fine dining. “I never eat anywhere that doesn’t insist on a tie,” Richard was telling Malcolm. “Takeout is for suckers.”
Malcolm vacillated between seeming engrossed in Richard’s monologue and looking desperate, a reluctant disciple at the feet of a self-appointed master. He nodded and murmured, “Yes, I see, of course.”
Richard removed his hand from Malcolm’s shoulder, and Malcolm scurried over to the empty chair between Janice and Grace. Richard frowned at the two women, then took the remaining empty chair across the circle from Malcolm.
Laura-Lea cleared her throat, a signal the session was to begin. Richard flashed Malcolm two thumbs up. “At the break I’ll tell you how to order the right wine with your meal. There’s an art to it, you know.” He kept his thumbs raised until Malcolm returned the gesture.
I was amazed by what had changed since the last time I’d been here. The group was like a living thing, shifting, growing, rearranging itself. Moving apart and coming together again in a new way as each member grew comfortable, familiar. I felt a pang of regret, and a longing to be a part of them. I was even more determined to share my story with the group.
Laura-Lea scooched back in her chair and clapped her hands twice. Everyone else did the same. I threw Grace a puzzled glance, but she was loo
king at Laura-Lea. Then, without prompting, they all took a long breath in through their noses, and let it out through their mouths. In unison. Like a breathing band, an airy orchestra. This is new too. I breathed with them.
Laura-Lea threw an arm out toward me. “Everyone, let’s welcome Kate back to the group. She’s agreed to begin the session tonight with her story.”
Richard raised a finger in the air. “Hear, hear. About time.” Seemed he’d forgotten the first time I shared my story. He hadn’t exactly been a pillar of support then. I hoped he had reined in his big mouth.
I glanced at Grace for support, and she patted my knee. “Go on, dear. I did it, and you can too.”
I took another of those long breaths through my nose and blew it out hard through my mouth. “You’re right, Grace. I can do this.” I shifted in my chair until I was comfortable and began to talk.
When I finished speaking, the room was quiet. No one, not even Richard, spoke or looked at me. I shifted in my chair, chanting a silent mantra, Please, please, please someone say something.
After a moment Grace—who had held my hand for much of my storytelling—stood and spread her arms open to me. Relieved, I stood and stepped into her embrace. She patted my back, and then held me at arm’s length looking me in the eye. “I can understand why it was difficult for you to share your story.”
“I’ll say,” I heard Mimi murmur to Bobby. Bobby just giggled and held Mimi’s hand.
Grace let me go and I sat down, gripping the edge of my chair. Janice was looking everywhere in the room except at me. Laura-Lea looked around the group, clearly expecting everyone to chime in. Bobby and Mimi fussed with each other, while Malcolm stared at his feet.
Richard waved his hand, making small circles in the air. “You do realize that Kevin’s voice wasn’t really him at all. It was you. You made it up,” he tapped his temple.
A spark of anger flashed. What made him the expert? Who was he to tell me anything? I mean, he wasn’t completely off base, but he was certainly no expert. I struggled to maintain my cool. I shared my story because I wanted to connect with the group and he was part of the group. I spoke slowly. “Thank you for your ideas, Richard.”
Laura-Lea’s face split into a grin and she waggled her eyebrows in a way that said, Good girl!
Malcolm piped up. “I think he means you invented it in your mind.”
I turned toward Malcolm. “I know what he meant.”
Janice flicked a hand toward me. “It’s not so strange, if you think about it. Young girl like you loses her husband, well, I’d go a bit batty too, I suppose.”
“Uh, thanks Janice.” I think. I ducked my head, suddenly shy. “Listen. I know I haven’t contributed much to the group before now. But I promise I’ll do better.” I glanced around the room. “I’m just like everyone here. I’m simply trying to get my life on track—trying to find normal.”
Normal. That’s what I had wanted for so long.
I’m curled like a cat on the sofa, knees bent, feet tucked under me. I reach out to take the hot tea Kevin hands me. The cup burns my fingers and I set it down fast on the table beside me.
“Sorry, sorry,” Kevin says. I don’t look at him. Instead I snuggle deeper into my red sweater, letting the softness of the cushions ease my ache. My body aches and I try not to move too much. Moving makes the blood gush. Everything hurts.
Kevin hovers over me for a long moment, but I won’t look up. I stretch for a book, a novel, on the table, but I can’t quite reach. Kevin snaps it up and hands it to me. I open it to page one. The words are a blur. My head pounds.
Kevin walks over to the Christmas tree and examines it as if he’d never seen it before. The lights are on even though it is the middle of the day. The opened gifts are arranged under the tree, looking ordinary after the display of colored paper.
“Would you get me an Advil?” My question makes him jump.
He spins around to face me, but he shakes his head. “You have to wait another hour or so.”
I furrow my brows. “Why? I hurt.”
He sighs and fidgets with his shirt cuff. He looks lost, out of place somehow. As if he has no idea how he got here, or what to do now that he’s arrived. “That’s what it says on the bottle. Every six hours. You took one five hours ago.”
“Oh.” I close my eyes and let out a long breath. I pull my feet out from under me and give a soft moan as I stretch them out on the sofa. Kevin bends and cups my heels with his hands, easing my feet to the cushion.
“I can do it,” I snap at him. “I’m not an invalid.”
He jerks back, hands at his sides, but his face is stony. “I’m just trying to help.” He spits the words like bits of sand.
“You’ve helped enough,” I say, wanting only to end this meaningless exchange, this fussing over something as inconsequential as a pill. I just want to be still and quiet.
His hands ball to fists at his side, then he opens them wide. “You’ll be fine in a few days. Everything will be back to normal.”
I look at him, from his rumpled dress pants to the open collar of his silk shirt. He’s far too sophisticated for these humble surroundings. He’s a GQ model set down in the middle of a rural community.
“What’s normal?” I ask. And he just looks back at me.
42
The dollar value for my house, on the seller’s agreement, was more than I’d expected for a two-bedroom house in a small town, but the realtor, Rose, had explained that asking prices were just that—asking. We’d lower the price if the house didn’t sell in two months. Glancing out the front window, I saw Rose pounding a For Sale sign into the front lawn. The woman came prepared.
Two months. It would be mid-December by then. I hoped to be in a new home before Christmas, to put this house and all that had happened in it behind me. Like Maggie had said, I needed to stop wrestling with the past.
I watched Rose drive off, then turned to survey my house.
But maybe I also needed to face it. I climbed the stairs and went into the guest room, which over the years had become a catchall space in the house. It was a storeroom of memories.
I opened the closet and shuffled through the junk at the bottom. Dust danced around my head and into my nose as I rummaged through the room, uncovering collections of discarded clothing, random pieces of paper, bizarre collections of mateless shoes, furniture polish, a broken tennis racket, and ice skates I hadn’t worn since high school.
I pushed through all these things, tossing them out of the closet without much more than a glance. It was almost as if I was looking for something. As if some part of me knew what I’d find.
In the back of the closet, I spied it—a large shoe box that had once contained a pair of men’s winter boots, size twelve. I picked it up and held it at arm’s length, as if it might contain a poisonous snake.
Just look inside.
I pulled off the lid. A bright red sweater had been stuffed into the box, and it swelled up, pushing its way out. I pulled it out and held it to my face. It smelled dull and neglected. I picked up the shoe box and the sweater and carried them into my bedroom. I crawled onto the bare mattress and let the memories rise up and speak.
Inside the shoe box were letters and a few postcards sent from friends traveling to faraway places. And random photos, blurry shots that didn’t make the photo album, but were never thrown out either.
I found a picture of a campground where Kevin and I had spent a weekend, and an unfocused picture of my sister, mouth full of potato salad, at a family picnic.
There were several from last Christmas. Kevin sitting by the tree, looking miserable. Heather and her boyfriend, long gone now, smooching under the mistletoe. My mother waving as she walked in the door. Of me, sitting on the couch, propped up with pillows, a blanket over my legs. I’m wearing the red sweater, unsmiling, pa
le and thin, like a Siberian famine victim. I tore the photo into pieces.
It’s early morning, barely seven, and the sun tries to break the dark. The trees, bright with new leaves, reach into the sky, licking up the first rays. I curl my legs under me and stare out the window. Kevin, holding a coffee cup, stands over me.
“How long, Kate?” He pauses, waiting for me to respond, but I have no answers. He tries again. “How long are you planning to live like this? Moping inside this house? It’s been six months.”
I pull my red sweater tight against my body and stare out the window. How long does it take to turn the world around?
Kevin holds out a piece of paper. “Are you coming?” he says.
It’s an invitation to a party. Black tie, it says, eight p.m., it says, celebrate Donna Walsh’s promotion, it says.
I’m so tired. If I close my eyes, I dream; if I keep them open, life continues around me as if nothing has changed. I’m not sure which is worse.
Kevin drops the invitation onto my knees. “I’m going.”
I nod. I know what he means. He’s going. To the party, to the city, to the bed of his mentor, his lover, Donna Walsh. He’s going, going, gone.
He pokes at the invitation. “I’ve waited a long time for you to heal, to get back to yourself.” He shakes his head, a disappointed parent at wits’ end with his dopey child. “It’s time to get on with life, Kate.”
I turn to him and look into his deep brown eyes. “Then go. Get on with life.”
His eyes widen, then narrow with the shock.
I wave a hand toward the door.
“Don’t wait for me,” he says.
43
Red and gold hovered like halos atop green trees as Dr. Alexander and I walked through the downtown park. The wind blew, but the sun still warmed us.
Upon arriving at his office for this, my third appointment since I’d been released, I eyed the couch, the somber walls, the soothing carpet and said, “Can we walk and talk instead?”
