by Taki Drake
To Mary’s surprise, there were soggy chuckles from several of the women in the room. Jean put words to speech for all of them when she said, “I do not think you will find a disagreement anywhere in this room, sister. It also makes me feel very grateful to my friend Mary, who insisted that I come with her today. Without her firmly applied foot to my backside, I would never have found people who understand where I am coming from and the difficulty of trivializing the experience and blithely moving on.”
Clearing her throat awkwardly, Susanna pulled them out of the depths of their shared grief, announcing that there were coffee and cookies available. She encouraged them to get up and mingle, although very few people were actively looking for someone with whom to talk. Feeling a tentative connection to the women, Mary made a point to exchange at least a few words with each one of them.
Confident that she had mentally stored away their names, the woman circulated, sporadically offering an exchange of cell phone numbers. Mary headed over toward the refreshment tables on the side. Looking down in dismay at the coffee pot, Mary thought to herself, This looks more like the sludge at the bottom of an oil pan than it does a potable beverage.
Susanna knew that the coffee was terrible and held out a decorative tin of cookies in a big rush of compensation movements. More to be polite than anything else, each of the women took one of the cookies, holding it uncomfortably in their hands before taking a single bite.
The young therapist blushed even more deeply red, finally admitting in a small voice, “I know the coffee is horrible and the cookies are not much better. I never have drunk coffee, so if someone could take charge of making the coffee for the next meeting, it would probably relieve all of you. I will try to buy a better tin of cookies, and that should help.”
Patty had been staring at the sludge in her coffee cup in disgust for a little while. After Susanna’s words, the woman lifted her head and looked around the group, saying, “I can manage the coffee for the next few meetings.”
As if from a long distance away, Mary heard her own voice emerge saying words, feeling as if someone else had taken control, leaving her as an observer. Astonished, the observer Mary listened as this alternate persona volunteered to make cookies instead of trying a different brand. A round of relieved laughter made its way around the group, and Mary found herself smiling.
It was an unfettered smile, fragile but genuine. The unexpected expression stretched Mary’s base features, leading her to wonder, When was the last time I actually smiled? The expression feels so foreign to my face. When did I cut out all the people that would typically be in my life and part of my everyday routine?
No voice answered her, and Mary snapped her attention back to the wrap-up of the group therapy session. Susanna was just telling them to be kind to each other and themselves each day and that she would look forward to seeing everybody the following week at the same time. Almost in a disassociated state, Mary made her way out of the chamber, stopping to exchange phone numbers and emails with the rest of the group.
Emerging from the building, Mary found herself standing on the broad steps that led down to the curb. Jean was at her side, standing silently but companionably there. Mary had not yet found her voice again, and after a moment of stretched out silence, Jean asked, “Would you come walk with me? We are right next to a beautiful foot and bike path. Let us just walk for a while and let our minds sort through what we just experienced.” Maintaining her silence, Mary nodded her head and began to walk towards the pathway. Jean followed.
Walking next to each other, the two women felt no need to talk. Without expectations or plans, the two long-term friends found their steps matching and drew comfort from the singularity of mind that comes from relationships forged in a hot fire.
Spying an unoccupied bench, Mary was the first to sink down wordlessly on the left end. A split-second later, Jean sat down with a thump on the right. The river that they watched flowed serenely, swirling around the rocks and irregular shoreline. Waterfowl paddling up against the current and gliding down with it in their daily gathering of food showed the women that despite the tension and fury wrapped around their hearts and heads that life continued.
Time stretched out, with the sun approaching the horizon and the gathering shadows starting to coalesce. Still, Jean and Mary sat, lost in their own thoughts but hyperaware of the other sitting beside them.
So softly that someone standing more than five steps away from the bench would not have heard any sound, Mary sighed, feeling the release of a sharp tightness in her chest. Instinctively the woman knew it was one of the dreaded judgmental “should” that restricted people’s lives and refused to mourn its passing.
Another timeless interval past and the sound of the same release came from Jean’s mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, Mary noticed that her friend had her head cradled in her hands and reached out a comforting arm to pull the quivering body of her friend closer.
They stayed that way until dusk had almost completely turned to night. With the synchronous movement of long-term good friends, the two women got up to walk back toward the car wordlessly. After all, what do you say to someone who understands your heart better than you do yourself?
Chapter 3 – Stitching Life Together
Jean honked her horn gently, and the front door opened immediately. Waving at her friend, Mary emerged, remembering to lock her door before moving down the steps to where her best friend waited. Slipping into the front passenger seat, the plump brunette woman offered up a small, fragile smile, real but tinged with sadness.
There was no need for the two friends to say anything. Their daily phone conversations kept them aware of what was going on in each other’s lives, so they could just be there for each other when they physically met. For a while, in companionable silence, Jean focused on her driving while Mary watched the scenery go by.
As they waited by a stoplight, Jean turned to Mary and said with a short laugh, “I will have you know I just spent two crazy hours frantically baking because I thought it was my turn to bring the cookies this week. Only after I had finished six dozen cookies did I remember Patty had actually offered to make them.”
Mary chortled, surprising herself. The sound of laughter gave her a strange feeling, but she responded to her best friend, saying, “I probably would have been more amused, but guess what I just spent two hours doing?”
Jean exploded with giggles, unable to see as tears poured down her face. Only when an impatient toot of a horn behind them made them aware that the light had turned green did the woman resume her driving. Still choking on her laughter, Jean managed to blurt out, “I guess we will just have to figure out what to do with that many cookies. One thing is certain, though, I do not need them. I never had to go on a diet before, but if I keep tasting all of my own baking, I’m going to be in trouble.”
The other woman added, “The last few months for this support group have been good, I think for everyone. The fact that Patty volunteered to bring cookies for the first time this week is another one of our small steps forward.”
“Connie is bringing the coffee and tea today. I wonder what new kind of tea she is going to introduce us to this week. I never knew before that there were so many different variations and types of tea,” contributed Jean. “I even went out and bought two of the new ones that she brought in. I got the anise one that tasted like licorice, and that citrus-honey herbal tea that felt so good on my sore throat that day.”
Mary murmured words of agreement, but Jean had just pulled up in the parking lot of the church where their grief support group met. Chatting idly, the two friends got out of the car and moved up the church steps, arriving at the door to their meeting room just as another woman came hurrying down the hallway behind them.
It was the session leader, Susanna, and she was gasping for air and obviously rushing. Politely, Mary and Jean waited for her, wondering what was going on. Mary thought to herself, She is usually here long before we are. I wonder what happene
d to make her this close to late.
When Susanna saw them, her face turned red, but she did not slow down until she reached the door. Still gasping, the younger woman explained as they entered the meeting room, “My earlier session ran late, and then traffic was horrible. There was an accident that extended my usual thirty-minute drive to over an hour.”
Listening to the younger woman, and then watching as she swiftly checked the setup of the room and invited everyone to sit down, Mary thought to herself, Our group has been good for Susanna also. She’s far more comfortable in her role now, and as she learns more about each of us, I think she is tuning her approach to grieving. Lord knows that most of us are not shy about giving her feedback!
The young therapist started by talking about recognizing small achievements in making genuine progress, even if what was being celebrated was baby steps. Displaying the lessons she had learned, Susanna mentioned that she was now letting the group know more about her so that they found things to use to connect with in some of her other therapy sessions. Then she asked, “Who would like to go first?”
Patty spoke up immediately, looking determined but with a small smile on her face. She said, “I finally went back to the restaurant. Not to cook, as I just don’t trust myself right now, but I knew that my staff was getting demoralized, and I thought I could be helpful by just being there for them. I can tell they are happier that I am back, even if all I am doing is tasting dishes.”
The rest of the group congratulated and applauded, while Susanna slipped in another question, “Can you tell what is changed? I hear in your voice that something has because I can hear the lighter burden that you are carrying.”
Thoughtfully, Patty paused before answering, “I feel like I have let go of my guilt. It was not my fault alone that my relationship broke, and it certainly was not my fault that he was killed. Everything is not settled yet, but at least I don’t feel like I am walking on broken glass all the time.”
Nodding her head, the oldest member of their group, Geri, blurted out, “I know what you mean. I finally could look at my chessboard. It was set up for the remote game I was playing with my son. All of the pieces were frozen in that peculiar snapshot of life as the game waited for his next move.”
Her eyes showing bottomless grief, lines of sorrow deeply riven into her face, the woman said in a breaking whisper, “I did not want anything to touch the board and pieces. Somehow, I hoped that if the board was still there, waiting for his next play, it would mean he was not really dead. After all, there was no body to bury, nothing to hold a wake for. Nothing to mark his passage except people in uniform on my porch and an official letter.” The tears became a flood as she whispered into the aching silence, “Perhaps they were mistaken, and he would come back. Maybe he was not in the vehicle that exploded.”
Her own face flowing with tears, Mary broke the quiet, asking gently, “Tell us about him, please. Let us know him so we can help you mourn.”
Geri brought her eyes up to see matching pain in Mary’s face. Holding onto that connection like a lifeline, the older woman dredged up a trembling smile from deep within herself, saying, “He was my most frequent opponent and won most of the time. Darryl had been steadily working his way up the national standings, reaching the top twenty in speed chess. I was so proud of him for all the work and study he had put in, and I knew that his dream of becoming a master-ranked chess player was possible. He wanted to be one of the first African-American chess masters.”
Her own face damp, the young therapist made tried to lighten the morass of grief that had surrounded the group. Mary could see the effort it took to force a smile and heard the young woman take a deep breath before saying encouragingly, “There are lots of chess clubs around the city! You could go to one of those and find plenty of people that would play games with you.”
Geri shook her head slowly from side to side, saying in a much lower volume, “It would not be the same. I do not enjoy playing with a bunch of strangers, and there is too much political maneuvering in any gaming club.”
Mary piped up, saying, “I know what you mean. People are worried about me, but I’ve actually quit most of the volunteer work that I had been doing. It was not that I minded the work or disliked the people I was interacting with, but everybody wanted to come over and hug me, and I felt like each time they did that, it added more weight to pull me down.”
The room was quiet, and Mary realized that she was not the only person dealing with those feelings of being overwhelmed by people’s ponderous attempts to empathize. After a while, Susanna asked quietly, “I know the last few months have been very hard for you, and you’ve mentioned before saying that it felt like people were running their fingers through gaping wounds in your body and heart. Is that changing or still the same?”
Sighing, Mary struggled with her voice for a moment before admitting, “I finally went into my son’s bedroom to clean out some of the items that are in there. I knew that some young people could benefit from the clothes he left and things like textbooks and other impersonal items. It was hard, but I gave myself plenty of time to cry and just feel.”
The group murmured comments of support but quieted instantly as Mary continued. Swallowing against a suddenly clogged throat, the woman forced herself to speak, saying, “I even went into my husband’s den. The first time I walked in, I cried so hard that I called Jean to come to get me. Luckily, she is a good enough friend that she hurried over and supported me as I looked at the traces of his life and tried to decide what to do with them.”
In the complete silence of the room, the slight scraping of the chair legs sounded loud, almost deafening, as Jean got up and walked over to her friend, putting a hand on her shoulder and murmuring, “That is what friends are for.” Mary’s hand crept up to where her friend’s hand rested, grasping it tightly.
Finally, straightening her back and shrugging her shoulders like she was removing a weight, Mary said in a totally different tone, “I am trying to find out what I want to do with the rest of my life. I am no longer a wife or mother. Instead, I seem to have been reborn once more. As part of the sorting I have been doing, I came across an old knitting project that I had put away when Matthew was a baby. He arrived early, and by the time I had any energy for knitting, he was far too large for the infant sweater I had been working on.
“So I finished the sweater and even added a hat. Then I donated it to the hospital so that somebody else’s baby would have something handmade. I also started to plan a quilt after our last session. Finding out that everybody here likes something to do with textiles and fabric has made me a little energized and curious.”
Before Susanna could say anything, the rest of the group chimed in with their own comments about fabrics. Discussion about different textile types consumed a good portion of their planned time as the women became animated about quilting, garment design, and even home decor.
Susanna pulled back the session’s reins, suggesting that perhaps they should go to a local event centered around fabrics. There was a pause in the talking, and the energy in the room dropped. Previously, the young therapist would not have noticed or known what to do. Now, her eyes glanced over everyone, and she asked forthrightly, “I can tell that that does not sit well with you. Will you tell me why?”
Pam, who had been very quiet until now, answered first, saying, “Going to do something around us keeps us remembering all the things we have done with our loved ones in the convention halls and other possible venues. I don’t want to go to the Sewing Expo in the same building that I remember taking my children to events and where my husband loved to go for the auto show. That is not something that will help me heal. It will simply gash me more deeply, and I cannot handle any more pain.”
“I may have an idea,” nervously suggested Naomi. “After we talked several meetings ago about finding something to help break us out of our grieving patterns, I started looking into possible photographic tours. My hope was that my block against taking picture
s might ease if I was not in the area where my children were raised and where my Girl Scouts' missing faces torture me every time I see photos from the last Jamboree.” The woman’s face twisted with pain, and for the first time, the group watched as her admirable control broke down and tears poured down her face.
Struggling with her voice, Naomi continued stubbornly, saying, “I knew I needed to go someplace that had trees and plants very different from here. I cannot even stand to go hiking through the woods, especially when it snows. If I do, all I can see is the avalanche breaking down and sweeping my son and eleven little girls down the slope to their deaths. I hear the screams again, agonized and disbelieving. It seems like it was just yesterday, but now I realize that the only screaming voice is mine.”
Naomi rubbed her face with her hands roughly. Regaining some control, she continued, “The discussion right now about fabrics and textiles reminds me that one of the photo tour brochures that I had picked up mentioned rugs and native textiles. I wondered if that is one would work for us.”
Susanna burbled, “Could you show it to us? It is great that you are thinking of something that the group could do!”
Reaching into the tote bag that leaned on her chair’s front leg, Naomi extracted several brochures, sorting through them until she found the one she wanted. As she passed it around, the woman said in a shaky voice, “It is a three-week tour, mostly by bus. The company insists it is in a safe area of Afghanistan and starts us off with a week in the city. That is followed by several days of touring four places, and finally, a few days back in the city before we fly home. I thought it might be a good combination of some of the things that each of us has said we like to do.”
Susanna repeated in shock, “Afghanistan!” At the same time, Patty almost shouted, “Yes! Not only do they have great textiles and rugs, but they have spices available there that we can never get in the US! Count me in!”
