The Wednesday Group (33 page)

Outside, standing on the sidewalk, her legs feel water-logged and swollen. She's probably retaining fluids again. Nothing a diuretic won't cure. The yellow street lamp gives her car a green hue. Just as she puts a foot on the road, a teenager, smoking a cigarette and not watching where he's going, bumps into her. Her ankles, thick with water, wobble, and she falls slowly, first to her knees. Her left elbow bangs the pavement, her pocketbook flies out. Loose change rolls away as she lies prostrate on the sidewalk.

“Are you okay?” The young man's voice sounds as if it recently dropped.

Gail manages to sit. The boy drops his cigarette and stomps it out.

“Just get me my purse,” Gail says.

He does as he's told, then lingers.

Gail glances at her torn stockings and sprawled legs. “Help me up.” She extends her good arm.

The boy pulls. Gail rocks a bit, but she's stuck. The humiliation is unbearable. “Go away,” she shouts. He does.

She knows what she has to do to get up, and she doesn't want anyone bearing witness. Gail maneuvers herself so that she's on all fours. A pebble grinds into her palm as a few raindrops splat in front of her. Carefully, she moves her hands a little closer to her knees. She places one foot, then the next onto the sidewalk. In stages, she pushes herself up.

She's grateful that it's dark and the holes in her stockings are hidden by her skirt. She hopes to God no one was watching. To have to display oneself like a dog in front of one's house is as degrading as life can get. Then she remembers Jonah left her.

She hobbles to the car. As she slides in, every bone aches, and her left elbow throbs. She moves the seat back in order to get some extra breathing room, even though that means her feet can barely reach the pedals. For ten minutes she sits, catching her breath, regaining her bearings. The light rain patters and glistens on the windshield. The heat will soon end. She massages her elbow, rubs her scraped knees, and feels old and decrepit. Certainly she can't go to the local convenience store looking like this.

Finally she starts the engine and decides to take Storrow Drive. Her extremities still ache, but a deeper pain in her chest begins to take over. She feels as if she's been shot.

On 95 North, her breathing is still wheezy, but her heart isn't racing quite as much. Deep breaths hurt, so she takes shallow ones and grips the wheel. A large green sign for Gloucester hangs above. For a moment the pain disappears as she thinks about Long Beach and the cottage there. She can hear the lapping of the waves and the cries of seagulls. She drives north. Home is toxic, a mocking reminder of the lie her life has been. She rolls down her window, lets the breeze caress her face, and thinks of how worried Jonah will be when he comes home to an empty house.

The parking lot is deserted. Gail leaves her purse and the keys in the car. No one is around. Nothing will get stolen. Her feet are still swollen, but her elbow is what hurts the most right now. She can barely bend it. Tomorrow she'll get it checked out. The beach is only a few feet ahead. Her body feels odd, leaden and heavy, tired and at the same time feathery, as if she is filled with helium. It must be the Atenolol.

The air smells thick with salt and seaweed. Soft rain drizzles as waves spill onto the sand. The heels of her shoes sink, and so she steps out of her pumps. The sand is pleasantly damp and cool. If only she wasn't wearing stockings. She lifts her skirt and begins to roll down her nylons, but when they're close to her knees, she recognizes her mistake. She's unsteady, and the best course of action will be to plop down right here. Her tailbone sustains a hard knock. Nonetheless, she's managed to sit and remain in one piece. She finishes taking off her stockings, then lies on her back, stretching out her arms and legs. She closes her eyes. Rain falls on her face, her lips. She licks a few drops, but soon her blouse is wet, uncomfortably sticking to her. She sits up, takes it off, then works her way out of her skirt.

It's heavenly not to be so restricted. She glances around. Behind her is a cement retaining wall. To her right and left, there's just beach, and in front of her the ocean. It's not easy taking off her camisole with her bad arm, but she manages. Finally, she unhooks her bra and pulls off her underpants. She can breathe again. She thinks of floating on a raft, of the sun warming her, the water sparkling around her, the waves rocking her.

She wants to feel lighter, freer. She rolls onto her side, once again gets onto all fours, and pushes herself up. With open arms, like wings, she walks toward the water.

Her feet sink in the wet sand. The first wave that crashes around her ankles feels like ice. But soon her feet are numb, blissfully devoid of any feeling. Inch by inch, methodically, she numbs her legs until there is no sensation. The water is at her thighs. She looks at the twin lighthouses on Thacher Island. The rain has stopped momentarily, and she can make out a cloud, a wisp of a thing, between the two lighthouses. They look as if they are holding hands, one watching out for the other. She will always be Jonah's lighthouse, and he hers. A wave comes in. The water swells to her belly. It's shockingly cold, but she doesn't mind. As it ebbs out, she feels the grip behind her knees. Her body falls forward, her head plunges into the sea. She extends her arms, pushes down on the water, and reaches air for a moment. She exhales but is pulled under before she has time to take a breath.

Time slows. She can hear raindrops hit the water. Then they morph into beautiful golden orbs, suns. All around her, fire falls. Balls of orange, the color of autumn, dapple her world. Just as she feels safe, cradled in a womb of salt water with the two towers beaming their lights above her, another wave pulls her to the surface, and she gulps at the air.

 

Kathryn

Friday morning, the heat has broken. Outside, it's that perfect temperature that licks up sweat the moment it appears. Kathryn finds her running pace. The sidewalk feels as if it has extra give this morning. Seeing Hannah return to group was a huge relief. Losing Lizzy was unexpected, but Kathryn feels good about the choices Lizzy is making. People really do change. The group will go through stages of growth, but it will not end. Last night Kathryn sent an e-mail to a number of colleagues informing them that she had a few open spaces. She is sure there are women who could use the support and wisdom Gail, Bridget, and Hannah have to share.

The moment Kathryn opens her apartment door, she hears the phone and dashes to pick it up.

“Kathryn Leblanc.” Her voice is alert, ready. She expects it is someone querying about the group.

“It's Bridget. Did you see the news?” The words race out.

“No,” Kathryn answers. Her first thought is that there was some sort of report on missing children and Hannah's daughter was mentioned.

“They showed Gail. A picture of her face.”

It's likely some high-profile case, and Gail's occupation will no longer be a secret. “What did they say?” she asks, beginning to stretch out her calf.

“She was found lying on some beach, naked.”

Kathryn mouths,
What
, but no sound comes out.

“They took her to a hospital. She may be dead,” Bridget shouts, then begins to cry.

“Did they say what hospital?”

“No.”

“You said you saw her picture? Are you sure it wasn't someone else?” Kathryn asks.

“I know what Gail looks like.”

“Of course. I didn't mean it like that. I was only wondering…” But she can't think clearly. She doesn't know what she was wondering. Just that Bridget must have the facts wrong.

“Did you know she was a judge?” Bridget asks.

“Yes.” That piece of information virtually confirms Gail's identity.

“What are we going to do?” Bridget sounds desperate.

“First, I'm going to make sure it was actually Gail.” She puts a hand on the front table to steady herself. “Then I will find out if she's okay.”

“I know it was Gail. It's not like I wouldn't recognize her.”

“Can I reach you at the number you're calling from?” Kathryn closes her eyes for a second. Shadows reach out to her.

“You need to find out what happened,” Bridget says.

“I'm going to make a few calls right now, and I'll get back to you.”

“Hurry.” Bridget hangs up.

Kathryn looks at the phone, not making a move. She knows she should be thinking of more logical, rational, concrete things, but her brain isn't working the way it should. Was there something she should have done differently? Something she should have paid more attention to?

Dazed, she walks to her study, sits, and stares at the bookshelf. Minutes pass. She opens her laptop and types
Judge Larson
into her search engine. A picture of Gail fills the screen. Underneath it, Kathryn reads
North Shore, esteemed judge, possible suicide attempt.

 

Hannah

Eleven-fifteen, Friday morning, Hannah is driving to Kathryn's office. It's the last thing she imagined she'd be doing today.

It doesn't seem possible, what Kathryn said on the phone. Fragments circle, as if they're outside of her, unable to settle.
Sad news
.
Found on a beach in Gloucester. Almost drowned. In ICU at Beth Israel.
She glances at the speedometer. It reads seventy-five. She should slow down. It's not as if getting there sooner will change things. Details probably won't help either, yet she feels that's what she needs. Details and answers.

She takes a sharp left into the small parking lot across from the Victorian house and dashes in. Bridget is already there, her eyes red and swollen. Kathryn's face is drawn. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, her bangs pinned up. She looks frail.

Hannah walks in and sits on the couch, where Flavia used to sit. The hard Windsor chair, her usual seat, seems hostile.

“What about Lizzy?” Hannah asks.

“I tried the hotel,” Kathryn replies. “But she checked out yesterday.”

Hannah lays her hand on Lizzy's empty spot on the couch. “Maybe it was meant to be, that she didn't have to find out. If she knew, she'd be pacing in the hospital lobby.”

“I can't fucking believe it.” Bridget stands, then sits again. “I mean … when I saw that picture of her on the news, I thought maybe she had a twin or something.”

“Do you know what happened?” Hannah asks Kathryn.

She fiddles with a paper clip. “I called the hospital. Her husband was there. I spoke to him for a few minutes, but … it wasn't the time to ask for specifics.”

“Did he reveal anything?” Hannah takes off her blazer, but then feels chilly and puts it back on. She can't get comfortable.

“He said she was distraught. Not acting like herself. He thought it could have been some sort of breakdown.”

“Yeah, I sure as hell wouldn't believe anything he said. For one, Gail wouldn't have had a nervous breakdown. She wouldn't allow it,” Bridget says.

“It's very hard to hear distressing news about people we care about.” Kathryn glances from Hannah to Bridget. Her shoulders look bony in the silk blouse she's wearing.

“You said she was in ICU,” Hannah says. “Do you know any more?” Answers would help her nerves.

“I'm afraid all they could tell me was that they were getting her stabilized.”

Bridget stands. “Then I say we go to the hospital and find out. If he knew she wasn't okay, and he let her drive…” She faces the door.

“They only allow family into ICU,” Kathryn says. “I think it would be best if you stayed and talked about how you're feeling.”

Bridget spins around. “How I'm feeling? Seriously. How the hell do you think I'm feeling? Angry, guilty, and fucked-up.”

“That sounds frightening,” Kathryn says.

“Can you not be a therapist for once, and just be human? Gail might be dying, and you're just doing the talk.
Perhaps you should think about how strong you are,
” Bridget mimics. “I'm not strong. I feel like my insides are corroding in acid.”

“I'm sorry you're in so much pain,” Kathryn says.

“Jesus, there you go again, stating the obvious. Maybe it would help us to know how you're feeling about this.”

“I'm shocked and deeply concerned, as you are. But what's important in here is how you're feeling,” Kathryn replies.

“Wow.” Bridget shakes her head. “You really can't stop.”

“Bridget.” Hannah gets up and walks toward her friend. “She's trying. She's upset too.”

“I say we go to the hospital,” Bridget says.

“I don't know,” Hannah replies. “Maybe we should talk a little more first.” She rests a hand on Bridget's arm.

“I think we should find out if her husband cheated, and if he did, we should…” Bridget looks ready to fight.

“Let's stay here for a little longer,” Hannah suggests. Bridget causing a scene in the hospital won't help anyone.

“Whatever.” Bridget walks to her chair. Hannah takes the seat next to her. When she realizes it's where Gail usually sits, she feels dizzy, as if the world is spinning the wrong way.

“When you described how you were feeling, one of the words you used was
guilt.
Can you talk a bit more about that?” Kathryn leans toward Bridget.

“I feel like we should have known more. If we were her friends, like we said, we should have known what was going on in her head. We could have done something. I mean, I kind of made fun of her for her life being so hunky-dory with a sex addict. It's like we never took her totally seriously. And when she really needed us, she probably didn't think we'd be there.”

“I think you found a way to connect with her that she really appreciated. Sometimes, when someone isn't thinking rationally, they don't make the best choices. I don't think it has anything to do with her not feeling your support,” Kathryn says.