Woman Last Seen in Her Thirties

by Camille Pagán

  “I’m having a hard time,” I confessed to Gita one night. We chatted most days, if only for a few minutes. I quickly added, “That’s not to say I’m turning around and heading back to Oak Valley.”

  “I would never suggest that you would—at least not yet,” said Gita. In the background, I could hear Reddy talking to Amy. “Have you met anyone? Anyone you could go grab coffee with?”

  “Not really.” I stared at a water lily in the painting over the bed, wishing I were wherever that place was, rather than huddling in front of a space heater in thirteen-degree weather. If I had half a brain, I would have joined Jean in Florence rather than moving into her Michigan home.

  “What have you been up to then?”

  “Grocery shopping. Unpacking. Reading a lot.” I fell back onto the futon mattress. It was like a pile of rocks covered with cotton, but I had been sleeping deeply for a change. “Jean has shelves full of apocalyptic-type novels. Some of them are strangely good, though the main takeaway is that if you manage to survive the beginning of the end of time, your reward is prolonged misery, and maybe the occasional roll in the hay with some survivor who’s even more screwed up than you are. Might as well let the zombies or aliens or whatever just have their way with you at the get-go.”

  “You know when you talk like that it really worries me,” said Gita, and I laughed.

  “I worry enough for both of us. But if you hear that a giant meteor is heading for earth, please show up at my front door with some nightshade.”

  “If that happens, I’ll be there in a flash,” she quipped. “In all seriousness, you need to stay busy if you’re going to get through this. Look for a job. Join a dating website. Just do something, preferably something that doesn’t involve rattling around in that house all day. Loneliness can kill you. There’s actually research to prove it.”

  “Great. So in addition to the honor of being a freshly minted divorcée, I get the bonus gift of a shortened life span.”

  “I’m trying to be encouraging, Maggie.”

  “Oh, I’m encouraged, all right,” I said. But I didn’t want to leave things on a bad note, so I promised Gita I would find a constructive social activity to occupy my time and increase my longevity.

  I would slowly pry my nails from their ragged beds before purposefully looking for love, but I was searching for a job. I had already applied for four bookkeeping positions and had received a callback on one. The hiring manager informed me I could start as soon as the following day. The catch: I would be making minimum wage for the first three months as I “trained” for a position I was overqualified for. The manager was in the middle of yammering about what a fantastic growth opportunity it was when I hung up on her. I was having a hot flash, it’s true, but that wasn’t the impetus for my behavior. I was simply tired of being lied to.

  As I stood at the stove frying an egg the next morning, I wondered if maybe it was finally time for me to go back to social work or something in that vein. Leaving the field after my client attacked me had seemed the right thing to do at the time. Twenty-four years later, I wondered if I would have been better served by taking a long maternity leave or a sabbatical. Now I would have to start over at the bottom, as Zoe once pointed out when questioning why I had not kept my “real” career.

  When I looked online later that day, the social work positions listed were far more appealing than the bookkeeping jobs I had inquired about, which seemed like confirmation it was the right path to take.

  But should I really look for a long-term position when I was only here for a limited time? Anyway, how did one craft a résumé in a field one had not worked in since the dawn of the World Wide Web? Mothering was nothing if not fieldwork, but I could not exactly list it under “experience.” And the paperwork—the paperwork! If I decided to apply for a job that required licensure, I would have to submit a dozen forms to begin the recertification process. I would have to perform thousands of hours of supervised work in order to prove my competency. Then and only then would I be permitted to take a test that could send the most stoic professional into a fit of spontaneous sobbing.

  I closed my computer, feeling confused and weary. If I were still drinking, I would have thrown myself a one-woman wine party. I suppose there are all sorts of ways one can feel when imbibing; personally, I was more sanguine and self-assured with each sip. I would have used liquid courage to decide if I truly wanted to return to social work, and if so, to begin the application process.

  It was so tempting to run back to my old ways—to give myself a boost, if only to make it to the next day. I could hop in my car and run to the market for a flavorful Rioja or crisp Sancerre, knowing that even half a glass would have made the world more welcoming.

  But as I turned away from Jean’s desk and walked to her bookshelves to find something to read, I reminded myself that the last time I had marinated my misery, I had ended up in a stranger’s bed. Like so many other things I had once enjoyed, divorce had eliminated casual drinking for me, at least for the time being.

  And just as well. I may have lost myself, but if I had learned one thing since Adam had left, it was that I wasn’t going to turn up in a bottle of wine.

  FIFTEEN

  I had been in Ann Arbor for two weeks when I drove past a church on the way back from a grocery run. The sign out front read:

  NONDENOMINATIONAL DIVORCE SUPPORT GROUP, TONIGHT AND EVERY TUESDAY, 7 PM. ALL WELCOME!

  Support group, pshaw, I thought. I had facilitated a few support groups when I was a social worker, and I hadn’t enjoyed them all that much. One-on-one counseling had been far more rewarding, or at least it had been until someone had taken a knife to my neck.

  Except now I was the one who needed support, I realized as I put my groceries away. And aside from Cathy and the baristas at Maizie’s, the coffee shop I went to most days to get my caffeine and conversation fix, I had not met a single person in town.

  Still, a group wasn’t for me; I wasn’t going to go. That’s what I told myself. But after I had eaten dinner, washed my lone plate and cup, and checked email only to realize it was just six forty-five at night, I stood up from Jean’s worn farmhouse table. Maybe the support group would be a bust, but that was still better than moping around the house and wondering if I should just cry uncle and drive back to Oak Valley. I gathered my things and got in the car.

  The scene at the church seemed less like life and more like a movie set. Linoleum-floored basement with circle of metal folding chairs: check. Burnt coffee and day-old doughnuts: check. Affable facilitator: check.

  Upon closer inspection, the people attending the group, at least, weren’t typecast. There was a woman so young I thought surely she could not have secured a marriage license, let alone gone through a divorce. An older man in athletic apparel sat across from another even older man, who was wearing a suit. Another woman looked like the best-case scenario of me—also in her early fifties, but beautiful and impeccably groomed. A handsome man with warm brown skin sat across from me.

  “So!” said the group leader, bringing his hands together. He was thin and pale, and ninety percent of his body hair had congregated in the inch of space between his nose and upper lip. “I’m Bob. As most of you know, I’m a licensed social worker as well as a divorcé, and I’ve been running this support group for the past three years.” His mustache wiggled up and down as he spoke. As I stifled a grin, the man across from me, who looked to be in his forties, caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back, which prompted Bob to home in on me. “I’m happy to see we have a new face joining us today. Welcome, welcome!”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, grateful he hadn’t asked me to introduce myself. I was pretty sure this wasn’t for me, so what was the point?

  “We’re happy to have you here. Now, would anyone like to talk about the past week?”

  The very young woman raised her hand and told us how disappointed her mother was about her divorce. Then one of the two older men shared how his recent wedding anniversary
had left him feeling empty and alone, which prompted another man to talk about how he had gotten through a similar situation. When no one else volunteered to speak, Bob redirected the conversation. “Today I was hoping to spend a little time discussing loving kindness—that is, the idea of compassion for your ex-spouse. The Buddhist monk Jinpa Min says that loving kindness is the path to all healing. In divorce, it’s easy to get trapped in a cycle of anger and regret. But those feelings make it impossible to remember that the person you were once married to is actually a human being, rather than an archetypal villain. Only once you learn to wish your ex-spouse well will you break the cycle and begin the next step of your journey.”

  “No offense to you or Buddhism, Bob, but that’s some serious bull right there,” announced the man who had smiled at me earlier.

  Someone to my right gasped.

  “Sorry, but it’s true.” He glanced around the circle. “I’ve got a hundred bucks that says most of us here—just by being the kind of people who show up to a divorce support group—spent years, and maybe our entire marriages and divorces, wishing our ex-spouses well, even when they didn’t deserve it.” His voice was low and measured as he said this. “Maybe I’m just speaking for me, of course. But if anything, I need help wishing myself well. Because even more than a year and a half after my split, I’m still feeling like it’s all my fault. And you know what’s really screwed up?”

  “Tell it,” said the elderly man in the suit.

  “When I think about my ex-wife, I am almost always wishing her well.” His voice began to rise. “It’s New Year’s; poor Lucinda, she hates this day! It’s raining! Does Lu have an umbrella? I mean, I would like to get to the point where I’m worried about how I’ll handle the holidays and whether I have weather-appropriate gear. I would like to stop wishing my ex-wife well and actually get angry with her.”

  Yes, maybe anger was the key. The only real fury I had managed to exhibit toward Adam was when I had kicked him out on Thanksgiving night. (And possibly when I had called him from Benito’s—though it was unlikely I would ever find out what I had said, and that was probably for the best.) Maybe if I had torn into him when he was first leaving, he would have told me then and there that Jillian was not the problem. Then instead of sitting in a church basement, waiting for my turn to talk about how horrible I felt, I would have already healed and been—

  Doing what? I thought suddenly. I didn’t even know what to wish my future would look like, and that was even more depressing than going to a divorce support group.

  “Yeah,” said the young woman. “I feel the same way about my ex. I hate him, but I still somehow want good things for him.”

  “Hmm,” said Bob, nodding. “That’s certainly an interesting way of perceiving it. And you’re both right. Getting through divorce is a process. It’s important to practice self-love as you work through it.”

  The older man in athletic gear snickered, which sent another man in his thirties into a fit of laughter. “Self-love,” he mouthed. I found myself smiling again, and soon the entire circle was giggling like a bunch of kids.

  “Let’s pause for a moment, okay?” said Bob, whose broad forehead was beginning to bead with sweat. “Please help yourself to the refreshments along the wall. We’ll reconvene in five.”

  Did Styrofoam contain toxic chemicals? If so, did piping hot coffee unleash them? Would dipping a two-day-old doughnut into a small bit of coffee put me at risk? These were the pressing questions on my mind as the fortysomething man came up beside me at the coffee station, filling the air between us with the scent of cedar and citrus. “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, you don’t have to introduce yourself,” he said, pouring coffee into a cup.

  “I’m Maggie Halfmoon,” I whispered, “but don’t tell Bob.”

  He laughed, and I decided he was all right. “Maggie Halfmoon. That’s a great name. I’m Charlie Ellery,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, Charlie. I liked what you had to say back there.”

  “It wasn’t too much?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thanks,” he said, almost shyly, looking down at his cup. “I don’t usually talk about my ex, so when I do it just kind of comes out like, blarg!” he said, mimicking an explosion with his free hand.

  Now I laughed. “That’s why I try to refrain from discussing my—” I grimaced. “See, I almost just said husband. This is all pretty new for me, and I’m not finding it particularly fun, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do I ever,” said Charlie.

  “Ah, the power of connection!” said Bob, coming up behind the two of us. “Hope you two bring this same spirit of conversation to the group when we return!”

  Charlie turned to me and subtly rolled his eyes, and I had to cough to cover my laughter.

  The rest of the meeting was uneventful. There were no revelations or epiphanies, but listening to other people’s experiences did make my own seem more bearable.

  Still, when the hour was up, I was questioning whether I would return the following week. What I needed most was friendship, and I wasn’t convinced a support group was the place to find it. I was still thinking about this when Charlie fell into step with me in the church parking lot.

  “Brr,” he said. “This weather makes me want to die.”

  It was bitterly cold, and I tucked my gloved hands into my underarms and shivered. “Or you could just move south. I hear Texas is ten percent more pleasant than death.”

  I stopped in front of my car, and Charlie, who had paused in front of me, grinned. His was the bright, open face of a person with nothing to hide. Maybe mine was, too. Maybe we had the faces of people who were left behind. “You’re smarter than me, Maggie,” he said.

  “Such a genius that I didn’t believe my ex-husband when he said he was leaving.”

  “Come on now. That’s not your fault.” Charlie touched my upper arm lightly as he said this, and even though his gloved hand only made contact with my down-filled jacket, a wave of confusion washed over me. How could I possibly be attracted to anyone at a time like this? But attraction didn’t mean anything, I quickly reminded myself. It was how you acted on that feeling that mattered.

  “Thanks. So. Um. How long have you been going to this group?” I asked him.

  Snow had begun to fall, and he brushed a few flakes off his nose, which was crooked yet sculpted, like a work of art. He had crinkly eyes, with the perfect amount of webbing at the corners, and I decided he was probably closer to my age than I had originally guessed. “Two months?” he said. “Maybe three? Yeah, I guess I first started going around Thanksgiving. It’s not great, but I’ve looked and there doesn’t really seem to be that much else around.” Sadness, as unmistakable as it was brief, surfaced in his expression. Then he righted himself and smiled at me. “Maggie, I don’t think I can keep dealing with Bob by myself. Will I see you next Tuesday?”

  Funny, disruptive Charlie with the great nose, who knew a thing or two about divorce: maybe he could be a friend. I smiled back at him. “I wasn’t planning to, but I think I’m going to go out on a limb and say yes.”

  SIXTEEN

  Dear Maggie,

  Florence continues to amaze me. The air is sweet, there’s so much beauty that this old gal’s heart may just give out, and the colors—oh, the colors. Even at the tail end of what passes for winter here, the light paints everything so darn vivid and unfiltered that I wonder why I’m bothering to attempt to re-create any of it. My tubes of paint and I just can’t compete.

  MH, I hope you’re still holding down the ol’ fort, and more important, that you’re enjoying yourself. I trust you’re finding good company to keep; just don’t invite the coyotes in. Italy and I miss you already.

  Most sincerely,

  Jean

  Jean and I had emailed back and forth a bit after I arrived, but I was pleased when her postcard fell out from between a grocery circular and the electric bill. I read it
while standing in the doorway, the wind whipping my hair around my face and sending icy air blasting into the house. Only after I had gone over the card a second time did I close the door.

  Was it wrong to be envious of Jean? At the very least, she was living proof that a person’s best years could still be up ahead.

  But she had a purpose; I did not. She had wanted to leave her marriage; I had not. Maybe this was why I could not envision a future even a fraction as good as my past.

  I had been in Ann Arbor for nearly a month, and I had mostly stopped crying at home—though I still allowed myself to openly weep in the car when, say, “Total Eclipse of the Heart” came on the radio. I had become friendly with Walter, the owner at Maizie’s. I turned down Cathy’s offer to grab a glass of wine but had joined her for a shift at a local food pantry. I had returned to the support group the following Tuesday night and had stayed even after Charlie didn’t show (so much for my new friend).

  I was keeping busy as best I could. But try as I might, I could not stop thinking about why Adam had not told me the truth in the first place.

  “Only cross-eyed folks keep looking behind them,” my mother liked to say if I launched into one of my could-have, should-haves. Getting to the bottom of things would not improve my circumstances, as I constantly reminded myself. But then I would be in the middle of a conversation with Rose or plucking an errant hair from my chin and suddenly think, I was too clingy.

  Or I was not clingy enough.

  Or He wanted to hurt me, even if he didn’t realize it. Why?

  That was the problem with attempting to hew yourself from another person: the work was never done. Just when you thought you were through, your past pulled you back for another round.

  “I’m obsessing about why my ex left,” I announced at support group. It was my third week in a row attending, and Charlie was back this time, wearing a ratty t-shirt and a pair of jeans that looked like they were ready to walk off without him. I sensed him watching me and chided myself for caring. The last thing I needed was to have a stupid crush on someone from my divorce group. I kept my eyes trained on Laurie, the woman who was my age but well preserved, as I spoke. “More specifically, I don’t actually know exactly why he left, and I’m obsessing about that.”