Give Me Yesterday (6 page)

Dr. Monroe,

I spoke with Peter Shaw and he told me you’d taken over our grief group. It’s been years since I last attended, but that group helped me through the roughest of times after losing Gail. Peter assured me that you were more than capable to help my employee. Victoria doesn’t open up well, but I believe she’ll benefit greatly from the fellowship of others suffering from similar stories.

No need to handle her with kid gloves. In fact, if you’ll let her, she’ll gut you. I love her like a daughter. Please don’t let her bark scare you away.

Sincerely,

Larry Collins

I glance down at my roster. All sixteen of us have been a solid group for eight months now—no new members but no losses either. Our Christmas party was epic, but I still cringe whenever I think about catching Bill and Glenda under the mistletoe.

As if clued into my thoughts, Glenda winks over her shoulder at me as she arranges cookies on the tray. I grin back at her but suppress a shudder. A sixty-two-year-old woman making out with a fifty-six-year-old man isn’t something I’d put on my list of favorite things. When Bill sidles up next to her and steals a cookie while simultaneously grabbing her ass, I actually do shudder.

Most everyone has taken their places in the semi-circle around the podium—many people laughing and giggling before the meeting begins. I’m sitting in the first chair near the podium while I wait. I’ve been volunteering as a grief group therapy leader for a year now. It has been tremendously helpful in my own steps of recovery. When I was at my absolute wits’ end, this opportunity became available and I’ve improved ever since.

Tuesdays are hard. And the workers in the paint department at the home store cringe when I walk in. But Saturdays, I live for.

I’m stolen from my thoughts the moment the scent of warm chocolate cookies wafts over to me and my stomach growls. I shove away thoughts of joining Bill in partaking of the snacks because I’ve had Glenda’s cooking before. Not something I want to ever relive. Not that my intestines could handle it anyway.

Another shudder.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The angry clicks of high heels on linoleum thunder through the buzz of voices in the room, alerting me of our newest arrival before she even emerges from the hallway. I check off her name on my list and fold the paper, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans. Lifting my eyes to the doorway, I await the notorious Victoria Larkin.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting.

Maybe a monster with bright red claws.

Perhaps a manlike woman with bulging muscles and a bowl cut.

What I don’t expect is a gorgeous, angry angel.

A blonde, blue-eyed woman, despite it being a casual Saturday afternoon, fills the doorway with her fierce presence and perfectly styled hair. Whereas everyone else, including myself, is wearing jeans and casual shirts, she’s overdressed and out of place in her white silky, long-sleeved shirt that’s tucked into her crisp, black pants. Her lips are blood red, as if she snacked on the ducks that live on the pond behind the community center before arriving and they match her glossy, spiked heels.

Her nostrils flare in resentment as she surveys the room. Disdain paints her features as she makes quick work of eyeing up everyone in the room, clearly judging them before she meets them. I’m sure Bill seems like a dirty old man flirting with sweet Glenda. And Nate, probably appears to be some goofy goon as he guffaws at a joke Claudia tells him.

The way she lifts her nose in the air in a haughty manner has me bristling with irritation. What she doesn’t see is Bill, the man who used to cry at every session over the loss of his wife of twenty-three years, is finally beginning to smile and test the dating waters after three years since her death.

What she doesn’t see is Nate, a single father of three, despite his laughter aches for the loss of his wife Cindy in Afghanistan. He struggles each day to be Mom and Dad to his little girls.

What she doesn’t see is me, a psychology professor who, although I teach about the five stages of grief, most days, I’m fighting depression and self-loathing that threaten to swallow me up.

She doesn’t see beyond the outside of anyone in the gaggle of people sitting in the circle.She may be sexy as hell—rockin’ the whole naughty librarian look—but her insolence grates on my nerves. Her holier-than-thou attitude leaves a sour taste in my mouth and a desire to defend every single one of my friends to her.

When her sapphire eyes meet mine, relief washes over her features and I sit up to face the woman head on. She ignores the diarrhea-promised cookies Glenda offers and stalks over to me. With each step, I admire the way her full tits bounce with the fabric. She may be a bitch, but she’s a hot one.

Instead of introducing herself, she sits on the chair beside me and clasps her hands in her lap, lifting her chin high in the air. I watch with interest as she then glances at the time on her expensive watch and huffs.

“Jesus, I swear. People have no respect for other’s time. Time is money,” she gripes. “When a meeting begins at three, I expect it to begin at three. Not three-o-five.”

I raise a dark brow at her and steal a glance at the clock on the wall which reads one minute till three.

“Bastards,” I agree, with a chuckle. “Some of us have shit to do.”

She nods with one clipped movement. Her back is rigid and within thirty seconds, she’s checking the time again.

“My God,” she murmurs under her breath, “I don’t fucking belong here.”

I lean toward her and the moment I get a whiff of her expensive perfume—sweet and floral—I’m almost dizzied out of my words. Quickly recovering, I whisper, “Did you lose someone? Because if you did, then you
do
belong here.”

She jerks away from me and pins me with a murderous glare. The ice in her stare threatens to harden me to stone but when I catch a flicker of sadness in her blazing blue eyes, I understand she’s hiding behind her frosty exterior. She’ll be a tough nut to crack.

“I think it’s ridiculous to be in a grief group where people laugh and cut up. Losing someone is not fucking funny,” she sneers with a flick of her French manicured fingers toward a still laughing Nate. “For some of us, the loss changes who you are down to the very fabric of your being.”

Her words allow me a brief glimpse into her hardened heart.
Don’t let her bark scare you away.
I remember Larry’s words and vow to chip away at her until she stops acting like a raving lunatic bitch.

“Everyone copes in different ways,” I tell her in a soft tone.

She bristles at my comment and jerks her wrist back up to check the time. “What do you know anyway? Losing your pet fish doesn’t count.”

I roll my eyes at her vicious dig, refusing to be belittled by her, and sling my arm around the back of her chair so I can lean further into her space. “I don’t have a pet fish. But, I do struggle every day, just like you do—and everyone else in here for that matter. Wishing for God to give me yesterday. To find a way to change the past and to breathe life back into those that were lost. Just because we all grieve differently doesn’t mean we all don’t suffer from the same black, endless, aching holes of despair deep within our hearts.”

She glances over at me and I cheer inwardly the moment I see her chin quiver, even if only for an instant before she bites down onto her bottom lip to hide her harbored emotions. “I’m sorry. I’m Victoria Larkin. It’s been a long couple of days,” she sighs in resignation but makes no move to shake my hand in greeting.

I flash her a grin and wink at her. “Chase Monroe. Good to meet you, Tori.”

Horror washes over her features and her nostrils flare again. “Victoria. Never Tori,” she hisses and checks her watch for the hundredth time. “If this meeting doesn’t start in the next goddamned minute, I’m leaving.”

Something in her cool, poker face tells me it’s a lie. Her ass remains firmly glued to her chair. The clock has since reached five after and I wait another forty-five seconds before I stand.

“Hmmm, you seem like a Tori to me. Guess I better get it started then, huh?” I smirk and revel in the way her cheeks blaze crimson with fury.

Sauntering away from her, I approach the podium and click on the microphone. Everyone takes their seats and I’m met with fifteen smiles and one angry scowl. I beam at everyone, even the pissed off angel.

“Good afternoon, friends. So glad everyone could make it. If you haven’t already,” I say, waving over to the refreshments, “help yourself to some coffee and Glenda’s famous chocolate chip cookies.”

Glenda smiles bashfully while several people grimace at me—past victims of her cooking. Bill, I swear the man has a steel lined stomach, rises to indulge himself in some more of her toxic treats.

“Today is a special day. We have a new member. Everyone, meet Tori Larkin.” I gesture toward her. “Tori, meet your new family.”

The moment the last word rolls off my lips, she snaps at me. “I don’t have a family. And call me Victoria.”

Everyone’s eyes widen, but they remain quiet. We’re normally a friendly group, and each person in here is struggling with how to take this frigid new arrival.

I ignore her and continue. “Today, I want to briefly run through the stages of grief. We all enter each stage at some point and spend more time in one stage than others. Oftentimes we enter multiple stages at once or revert back and forth between certain stages. Every person is different. I want you to think about what stage you are at and how you can take steps to move on.”

Glancing at Tori, I see her attempts to ignore my words. She picks at her nail and keeps her eyes downcast, almost as if she’s discovered a way to retreat from life.

“Tori,” I call out to her, dragging her into our present moment. “The first stage is denial and isolation. This usually occurs immediately after the death of a loved one. We can’t believe what’s happened and hide from reality. In this stage, we’re pretty much still in shock.”

Her eyes find mine and she frowns. “Dead is dead. I’m not denying that.”

I smile at her and nod. “Next stage is anger. The pain of reality slices through our hearts and minds. We're pissed off at the world—pissed at those who left us—pissed at those who took them away from us. It’s an emotion we feel more comfortable and in control with.”

She purses her lips together. Tori walks the anger stage like she’s the motherfucking queen of it.

“Bargaining and then depression are the next stages. We beg and plead with God, praying for another moment. A second chance. Another minute to touch the ones we love,” I say, emotion causing my throat to grow hoarse. “When our prayers to God fall on deaf ears, depression sets in. These two stages, I’m all too familiar with.”

Her eyes flit around the room as her nose turns a slight shade of pink. The sad, caring emotion she tries to hide rises to the surface and tears threaten.

“Does anyone know the final stage of grief?” I question.

Belinda, a quiet woman who doesn’t speak much, lifts her chin. “Acceptance.”

The moment the word is uttered, Tori’s angry mask slips back into place. “Excuse me?” she seethes.

Belinda stands and approaches the podium. I nod and take my seat back beside Tori who ripples with fury.

“Acceptance is the final stage,” Belinda reiterates, pinning Tori with a knowing stare.

“You people are wrong,” she spits out in response. “I will never accept the losses I’ve endured. Never.”

Bill pipes up in defense. “I lost Annie three years ago and I’ve finally come to accept her death. I’ll miss her every day, but I know she wants me to find happiness again.”

Tori folds her arms over her chest and glares at him.

“It’s been two years since I received the call about Cindy,” Nate offers, “but most recently, I’ve finally found peace and know that she’s in a better place. Watching over me and our angels.”

Tori explodes and throws her arms in the air. “The loss of your spouse is awful, no denying that. But you people have no idea what it feels like to lose both your husband and your child. I will never accept that their lives were stolen from me.”

Group sessions, especially with a new arrival, tend to become emotional battlegrounds. Everyone feels as if they’re suffering more than the person beside them. So, instead of intervening, I let them hash it out.

“Tori,” Belinda says meekly. “My four-year-old son drowned in our pool last summer.”

Tori’s rigid frame breaks and her shoulders sulk. Heavy breaths burst from her as she fights desperately to keep her tears at bay.

Belinda continues with a resigned expression to get her story out. “I was angry, just like you. My gut reaction was to blame my husband since he was watching him. My anger ruined our marriage and we’re now separated. Depression has clawed at my brain for months now but finally, my doctor prescribed some medicine and therapy. Max isn’t coming back. I know this now. My sweet baby is with Jesus.”

An anguished sob rips from Tori and she jerks to her feet. On unstable legs she wobbles toward the exit, no longer the confident bitch who strode in here not long ago, and pushes through the now closed door. I stand and follow after her. With a wave of my hand toward Belinda, I urge her to keep talking while I make sure Tori’s okay.

I push through the door in time to see her slip into the women’s restroom. With a sigh, I open the door before it closes all the way and find her at the sink dabbing a paper towel at her eyes.

“Leave me alone,” she snaps, her tears quickly drying.

I ignore her wishes and stalk over to her. “Nope.”

Twirling around to face me, she shoots me a murderous glare. “This is ridiculous. I don’t belong here—”

Her words are cut short when I grab onto her surprisingly firm biceps and haul her to me. My arms snake around her back and I hug her tight. She’s frozen at first and I fear she might push me away. Slap me even. But when she breaks down in my arms, my heart opens up to her. I want to help this broken woman who hides behind her fire and ice.

“Shhh,” I coo and stroke the soft material that covers her back. “It’s okay to cry.”