On Second Thought
Page 36

She was so damn nice. “Okay. Thanks.”
Time to open a vein.
Chapter Thirteen
Ainsley
Apparently, St. Andrew’s was the happening place when you had a problem. There was an AA meeting going on in one room, an NA meeting in another, a divorced people’s group and ours—I mean, Kate’s. One Step Forward: Support Group for Widows & Widowers, the sign said.
Kate’s shoulders were clenched around her ears. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” she said.
“Why don’t we give it a try?” I countered. “You might be surprised.”
“You’ll stay, right? God, I sound pathetic.”
My heart pulled. “Of course I’ll stay.” Finally, I was needed. It felt good after the battering my ego had taken today. God, was it only today? I felt a million years old.
My phone buzzed with a text from Eric.
Guess what? GMA wants to have me on the show!!! Jimmy Kimmel, too!!! Seems like the CCs have really struck a chord. Did you see today’s post??? Went totally viral!
My eye twitched. If Eric was here right now, my phone would be shoved into his frontal lobe. Or up his ass.
I’d received three hundred and seventeen emails today. Eleven of those were from Judy, panicking about what her son wrote about me with just a hint of pride thrown in, as well. And now Men’s Health wants him to write a column about his fitness regime! He does look good these days, don’t you think? Then, seconds later, another email, But don’t worry. He’ll come to his senses. He loves you.
The urge to go back to Kate’s fabulous house right this minute and guzzle piña coladas was strong within me.
Then Kate reached out and grabbed my hand. My sister needed me. Whatever I was going through, Kate had it worse. In the thirty-two years I’d known her, I’d never seen her lost before.
The group was held in what was clearly a nursery school classroom by day. There were little tables and tiny chairs, and cotton-ball lambs decorated the wall along with the alphabet and numbers. A bookcase and carpeted area were on one side of the room, and the place smelled comfortingly of paint. In the middle of the room was a circle of gray metal chairs, looking out of place in the cheerful, diminutive decor.
There were six or seven people here. Two men, one extremely attractive... Too soon to fix Kate up? Yes, of course it was. Jeesh. I sounded like Gram-Gram. The rest were women, one about Kate’s age, one older, one younger.
“Hello, I’m Lileth,” said one of women in a smooth voice. “I’m a licensed clinical social worker, and I run this group. You’re welcome here, and I’m so glad you came. Here are the rules.” She smiled sadly, a professional mourner’s smile, and handed us a ream of papers.
“Wow. Lots of, uh, information. I’m Ainsley, and this is my sister, Kate,” I said. Kate said nothing, so I felt obliged to fill the gap. “Her husband died a few weeks ago.”
Kate cleared her throat. “Yes. April 6.”
“Nathan Coburn?” one of the women asked.
“Yes.”
“I know his sister.” She smiled.
“Hey, Kate,” the hot guy said. “Sorry you belong to this shitty club. Jenny told me you might show up.” He smiled.
“Hi, Leo,” she said.
Right, right. He’d come to the wake with the wedding dress designer.
Who wouldn’t be making my dress, as I wasn’t engaged.
But it was Kate’s turn to be miserable. “Is it okay if I stay? Since it’s Kate’s first time?” I asked Lileth.
“We prefer that you don’t,” she said.
Leo sighed dramatically. “It’s fine with me,” he said.
“Me, too,” said one of the women.
“Me, too,” said another.
“I don’t mind,” said a little old man.
“It’s just that you don’t share the experience,” Lileth said. “And the group might not be comfortable with someone who’s not a widow.”
“So she’s not a widow,” a woman said. “Good for her. It’s not like we’re going to stone her.”
“That’s a relief,” I said.
“The rules—which exist for good reason—say only widows and widowers.” Lileth cocked her head, fake-smiled and waited for me to leave.
“Are you widowed?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No. But I’m a licensed clinical social worker.”
I felt myself bristling. Kate was still clutching my hand, and I liked the sense of being needed. “Think of me as a therapy dog,” I said.
“Oh, let her stay, Lileth, for God’s sake,” one of the women said. She had a glorious Bronx accent, the orangey skin of a tanning addict and crispy dyed black hair. “We’re all bored with ourselves and our whining, anyway.” She patted Kate’s shoulder. “So sit already, tell us your story.”
Lileth didn’t look happy. I hated her already.
We sat on the cold, hard folding chairs. “A few ground rules,” Lileth said. “Which are covered in the information packet I just gave you. One. Our group, One Step Forward—”
“Two steps back,” Leo interjected. Lileth ignored him.
“—is a safe place, and everything we share is meant for this group only. Two. Confidentiality is expected.” She glared at me, as if I was live Tweeting already. “And this one time, I suppose it’s all right if—I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Ainsley.”
“—if Ainsley stays. Unless anyone has a problem with that? This is your group, and if anyone has even the slightest bit of—”
“Let her stay,” said the man who was not Leo. “She’s pretty.”
He was about eighty and gave me a smile. I smiled back. Take that, Lileth.
“Three. We take turns. Each person may choose how much to share, but everyone—”
“It’s not rocket science, Lileth,” Leo interrupted. “Kate, if you feel like talking, talk. You already know me a little, so I’ll go first. Here’s the sad story in a nutshell. My pregnant wife—Amanda—died in a car accident. I was driving. They both died, our unborn son and her.” His face seemed to change without actually moving, and suddenly his tragedy, easily spoken of, filled his eyes. Filled the whole room. I teared up, trying not to picture what that day, and all the days after, must’ve been like.
Leo cleared his throat. “That was three years ago. And now I’m with Jenny, and she’s really fantastic, but I have my moments of deep dark despair. She thought this group might help. And it has.” He smiled, the sorrow shifting, if not leaving, and I found myself liking him.
I looked at my sister. Still had that deer-in-the-headlights look.
“I’m LuAnn,” the orangey woman said, her Bronx accent so thick you could practically taste the Yankee Stadium hot dogs. “Cop’s wife. Widow. God, I hate that word! Anyways, last year, Frank, my husband, he goes on a DV, right? Domestic violence for you civilians. Worse kind of call. Knocks on the door, the husband answers, shoots him point-blank, dead. We got four kids.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” Kate said, her voice tight and strained.
LuAnn shook her head. “Here’s the thing, Kate, hon. I am so mad at Frank, okay? Seriously. How the hell could he do this to me? If he was alive, I would kill him. I would kill him in cold blood.”