As Good as It Got (9 page)

Sharpe

“Now . . . ” Betsy picked up four clipboards gripping single sheets of paper, and a bunch of pens. “Our next exercise will be harder. We’ll do this at each session. I’d like you each to write a letter to the man you lost.”

The women moved uneasily, Ann suppressing a twinge of irritation. What kind of stamps would get Paul’s letter where it needed to go?

“A letter?” Cindy frowned. “To Kevin?”

Betsy smiled placidly. “Not for him to read. Just for you.

And for me, if you’ll let me. It’s how we start the process of excavating our feelings. Once they’re out in the open, we can sort them out, interpret them, and help them lose power while we allow ourselves to heal.”

Ann felt her pleasant expression harden and had to work not to roll her eyes.
Hold it steady
. Excavating, sorting, interpreting, healing. She could do all those things. She even accepted her clipboard with a smile, though she had no idea what the hell to say to Paul.
Having a lovely time, wish you
were here?

A glance around the room showed Cindy looking nervous, but eager to please her teacher, by golly. Dinah was nodding, fiddling with one of the big cheap rings on her fingers, yeah, yeah, she’d done this all before and would be happy to tell them all about it at great length. Martha . . . well, who could tell. She sat impassively again, a lump on a chair, removed from yoga like a patient taken off life support.

“Here you go.” Betsy handed out clipboards and pens to the others. Cindy and Dinah began scratching away immediately. Ann met Martha’s eyes, shrugged and smiled. See? She could even be friendly.

Except Martha looked away—and there went friendliness.

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So Ann stared at the paper, three holes in the left side, blue lines to write on, pink defining the margin. Cursive lessons and grade school essays,
indent the first line, pen please, no
pencils, this is sixth grade not elementary school.

She resisted a sudden urge to crumple the paper and bounce it off Betsy’s serene head, or shred it into tiny confetti pieces and hurl them into the air to flutter down like snow.

No,
good
attitude. Good.

“Ann?” Betsy’s voice was honey, molasses, maple syrup—

slidy and sweet. “Are you having trouble?”

“No.” She gave a tight smile and glanced at Martha, who’d found it in her to write something and was busily scribbling away. The traitor. “No.”

“It’s a difficult exercise, I know. If you need help, I can—”

“I’m
not
having trouble.” Silence while three heads lifted from their bent positions over the clipboards to stare at the problem pupil. Tsk-tsk. Every class had one.

Crap. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Ann.” Corn syrup, treacle, caramel. “We’re all angry, we’re all scared, we’re all sad. We have to remember that this is not a time that defines us, just a bump on the road of life which we have to get over before we can move on.”

Ann stayed stone still in her chair while figurative vin-egar and baking soda made a science project volcano in her stomach. She was not going to be able to listen to this shit for two weeks without saying something much, much worse than she already had. Especially without alcohol to make the pain go away.

She picked up her pen, scratched out a few sentences, her throat barbed, breath high and shallow. Dear Paul, bullshit bullshit bullshit, love, Ann.

74 Isabel

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Done.

“Everyone finished?” Betsy rose from her chair and collected the papers from Cindy and Dinah. “Martha?”

Martha handed hers over, looking as if she’d rather be eaten by mice. Then, miraculously, she flicked a glance at Ann, which might very possibly have contained an acknowledgment of their shared misery. Very possibly. Regardless, it helped in some weird way, and made Ann able to hand her paper over.
Enjoy, Betsy!
Work your diagnostic magic and come back with a pronouncement. Ann Redding: grieving widow with severe anger issues.

Like she couldn’t have figured that out herself.

But okay. Positive karma. Yoga. Sun salute. Upward facing mountain, whatever whatever.

“So. Now we talk. Tell me your stories. Tell me why you are here.” Betsy opened her arms wide to the group, expectant smile making her eyes crinkly and warm. “Who wants to go first? ”

Apparently no one.

“Okay. Tell you what, I’ll go first. I’m Betsy. I grew up in Framingham, Massachusetts. I was a bit of a wild child, as Ann can tell you, since we went to grade school together. I got pregnant young, married young, divorced young. My son wanted to be a musician and was very talented. He was also gay. At seventeen he was killed riding in a car with drunk friends.” She spoke calmly, quietly, didn’t react to the gasps in the room. “To say it changed my life was an understatement.”

Ann clenched her fists. She
hated
this. It was just like the bonfire, only much worse. No doubt Betsy told that story to different groups of strangers every two weeks, rotating in bunches of four, over and over, until the words “he was As Good As It Got

75

killed” could be uttered from a clear throat, their meaning lost, part of a performance. Ann didn’t ever want to get to that point. Ever.

“I fell apart, hit bottom, and then put my life back together. I got a degree in psychology so I could use my experience to help others. But I found it too painful to try to help parents grieving the loss of their children, so instead I made Camp Kinsonu about coming to a place of peace for suddenly single women.” She bowed her head, smiling peacefully. “This camp, this vocation, this calling, have given me such strength and direction. I can’t have Justin back, but I have this, his last valuable gift to me.”

And . . . curtain! Applause applause, the crowd goes wild!

Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a hit.

Ann wanted to jump up, run out the door and keep running until her body gave out. Talking of pain was so artificial here in this warm, attractive room, among women she cared nothing about, who cared nothing about her. These people didn’t deserve her feelings about Paul, about his life or his death.

“Who’s next?” Betsy made eye contact with each woman except Martha, whose green and gold swirling patterned skirt had apparently hypnotized her.

“I’ll go.” Dinah raised her hand, adjusted herself in her chair as if preparing for the long haul—which in her case, she undoubtedly was. “I got married young too, to Dan, who I divorced three years later when he developed this weird thing about not letting me talk to any other men. Then I met Frank, and married him, but he was a trucker and never home, and I hated that, so I divorced him too. Then I met Stanley, who was so sweet to me. He was older than me, like eight or nine 76 Isabel

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years, but he got sick. And he died. But honestly, I haven’t told a lot of people this, but I don’t think that would have lasted either. I’d already started to look around.”

Ann had to instruct her face muscles to relax from a look of utter incredulity. Disposable husbands. What a concept.

Like being married to a Handi Wipe.

“See, I always seem to pick guys that turn weird after a few years. I know it’s not me, because I’m the same, you know? When I’m in love, I’m in love, and it doesn’t turn off or shut down at all. At least not until they change into totally different people.

“So I guess I’ll wait a while and try again. Husband number four is out there somewhere. I’m an optimist, you know, I figure I’ll get it right one of these days, find a guy who really loves me and will stay in love with me instead of whatever . . . you know . . . not. Someone who really wants to communicate, which is so important in a relationship, and to keep communicating. None of my husbands could really communicate.”

“Like any of them got the chance?” That was it. Good attitude and Ann were no longer associating.

Dinah flashed a blank questioning look over toward Ann, which pissed her off more.

“I’m sure Stanley’s death was hard on you . . . ” Betsy smoothed the moment over.

“Oh.” Dinah looked faintly surprised at the prompt, as if she’d forgotten about that detail. “Yes. It was. Devastating.”

Ann’s stomach volcano erupted. “Didn’t sound devastating to me.”

Oh, and all eyes were on her now, startled, uncomfortable, As Good As It Got

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anxious. She’d done a splendid job at this her first therapy session.

“You’re angry at Dinah for not seeming more upset.” Betsy’s unruffled tone was particularly enraging.

“No. I’m not angry. Why would I be angry?” She was so angry she couldn’t keep her voice from shaking. “It’s her business.”

Her business to toss off husbands like outfits she wasn’t in the mood, for while Ann would give a whole hell of a lot for the chance to do things differently.

“Ann, would you like to talk about your—”

“No.” She breathed furiously to keep tears back. “ No, I wouldn’t.”

Betsy gave her a measuring glance that made Ann want to punch her white even teeth out. “Who would like to go next? ”

“Oh, well, I will.” Cindy half put up her hand, then tugged it down. “My husband and I have been married more than twenty years, mostly happy ones, except for . . . well, Kevin has affairs. He’s had three. I’m here this time because he
claims
to be in love with this last one.”

She rolled her eyes as if this were immensely ridiculous.

“And you don’t think he is?”

“Of course not.”

“Why is that?”

Cindy stared at Betsy as if she was the one needing counseling. “Well . . . I mean, she’s just a mistress.”

Martha looked up then, fixed her eyes on Cindy, and Ann had the surreal impression she wanted to punch Cindy’s horse teeth in. Maybe they should do dental damage 78 Isabel

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together. Wasn’t that what therapy was for? Letting out your aggression?

“He said he wants a divorce.” She laughed and shook her head—in case they hadn’t gotten the hilarity the first time.

“So I’m here waiting until he gets over his middle-aged crisis and comes back to me.”

Ann’s eyes narrowed. Was this woman for real? If Paul had ever screwed another woman, he’d be unable to do it again.

Ever. With anyone. Even himself.

“I do want to say . . . ” Cindy glanced apologetically around the group. “I feel sort of bad. I mean I’m not really here on false pretenses, because he did
say
he was leaving me, but it’s not like I’ve really lost him. And all of you . . . well, I do really feel sorry for you.”

Sorry for them?
Ann couldn’t have heard right. She couldn’t.

“What makes you say that, Cindy?” Gentleness dripped from Betsy’s tone, and a hint of her own sympathy.

“Well, I mean . . . ” Cindy started to look anxious and guilty.

“You’ve all lost people. And I . . . haven’t. Not really.”

“Oh come on.” Ann was ready to hurl herself across the room and strangle Ms. Smug Sorry for Your Losses. “Get real, honey, that man is gone.”