Tuesday Night Miracles Read online

  Grace looks up, and smiles. Have three hours passed? Already?

  “Hey,” she says, stopping to put her hand on Kelli’s arm. “Have you ever wanted to go to the ocean?”

  Then the most amazing thing happens. They don’t argue and Kelli doesn’t immediately go to her room. Kelli sits down and they talk. Grace rocks. They keep talking, and when Kelli’s cellphone rings and Grace gets up she takes the needlepoint with her. There’s so much work to do, Grace tells herself, but now there’s also an ocean that needs to be finished.

  11

  Whiskey A-Go-Go

  Phyllis has decided to move off her throne at the end of the bed and join Olivia in the big beige living-room chair.

  The devoted cocker has thirteen-year-old hips that hurt almost as much as Olivia’s, so Livie, as her friends and family often call her, has placed a soft round pillow next to her reading chair so that the dog can keep her company without much pain.

  Phyllis is just about as stubborn as the woman she was named after—Livie’s beloved mother, who also had a mind of her own. Phyllis the dog comes and goes as she pleases. Even if Livie is lonely and summons her to the living room, Phyllis gets there when she feels like it. Occasionally, she doesn’t bother to leave the bedroom.

  When Phyllis was a puppy, Livie started talking to her as if she were a person, especially when she sat in her beige chair and sifted through files for the next day’s appointments.

  Phyllis is a pretty good listener for a dog. But even Phyllis has her limits. Livie has gotten into the habit of speaking out loud, more often if she has a tough case, and sometimes Phyllis looks up at her as if to say, “Shut it off for a while,” pulls herself up very slowly, looks disgustingly at Livie, and trots away.

  But on this Monday night Phyllis is acting as if she is in for the long haul. She’s resting her gray-whiskered face on her light tan paws, flipping her tail back and forth, and listening intently.

  And Phyllis is getting an earful.

  “These women are something,” Livie begins, grabbing the blue-, green-, and red-dotted files, where the first assignment reports are nestled. “Phyllis, I may be in over my head with this one, but I sure as hell am not going to surrender to any of them without a fight. I know I can do this.”

  Phyllis blinks once but decides to stay.

  Livie is quiet for a moment as she shuffles through the files and then settles in for a thirty-minute analysis. Her three charges have emailed her their thoughts, as assigned, but it’s obvious that there is still plenty of work to do. Jane gets an A; Livie is actually surprised that she managed so well. She seemed to have a series of experiences during and after the hike that made her think genuinely about what’s important. Grace gets a C. Sure, she rocked and needlepointed, but then she fell right back into thinking she had to run fast through the rest of her day and the one after it. Grace, shame on you. Kit will get a B if she really does go back and hang out with her new friend, but until that happens she gets a C, too. Kit got lost in the comic moments, but by the time she sat down to write she was dragging herself through her past yet again.

  Girls, girls, girls. We must move forward!

  Olivia sets down the files and rewards herself by reaching over to take a small sip from her glass of Jameson eighteen-year-old whiskey. Her nightly drink is her single dose of “medicine.” She has younger friends who gulp down pills for aches, pains, and a variety of suggested deficiencies—all of which, she constantly tells them, could be cured with a small drink every night.

  Dr. Bayer is also smart enough to know that her nightly routine is as much a psychological tradition as it is a physical one. She has never been much of a drinker, and the splash or two of alcohol she allows herself does about the same thing a cup of warm milk or some chamomile tea would do to ease her into a good night of sleep.

  Tonight she has left the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter for an extra visual dose of courage. She tells this to Phyllis as she shakes the files toward the floor, where her dog is now totally ignoring every single word that Livie says.

  “It was my bright idea to put the three of them together like this, and not throw them into a larger anger group. Last week was tough, Phyllis. I took a risk handing them those white envelopes. But I’m determined. I think they want to change, I really do, and I think I can help them find their way home. They might think I’m crazy, but I have to try. Damn it, I do.”

  Phyllis cocks her head. She is not fond of swearing, and Livie has tried hard for the past fifty years to wipe her father’s filthy-mouthed influence off her own lips. But sometimes there is absolutely nothing like a damn, shit, or hell to get your point across.

  Livie sets down the files and grabs another folder that is resting on the table next to her. She’s gotten so used to working from this comfy old chair that five years ago she bought a larger side table to hold her files, notebooks, a mess of half-broken reading glasses, and her much-needed glass of whiskey.

  The new folder is filled with police reports, photographs, witness statements, and a very bold note written across the top of the last page. It’s from her supervisor:

  If you think you’re such a magician I suggest you take on this one as well, Dr. Know-It-All. You can have her for your Tuesday-night marauders. And no, you don’t have a choice.

  Livie lets out a very heavy sigh. “This might be a good time to fall asleep,” she warns Phyllis.

  Phyllis lifts her head for a moment, nods as if she completely understands, and then does exactly what Livie suggested.

  The folder is very thick, which is always a bad sign. Livie takes a large sip of whiskey and then reads through all the pages. She tries, really tries, to focus on the facts and to leave her emotions resting close to Phyllis. She’s absolutely unsuccessful.

  She drops the folder onto her lap so that she can reach down and run her hand across Phyllis’s back. Phyllis likes this part of the file ritual. She has a feeling this is going to be a good night.

  “This is now a total mess, Phyllis. What was I thinking, trying all these experiments when I’m so close to the exit sign?”

  Phyllis wags her tail very rapidly four times.

  “I’m sorry, Phyllis, but I must say a bad word now so prepare yourself.”

  Phyllis does not want Livie to stop rubbing her rump, so when Livie says “Shit,” Phyllis does not flinch. But then Livie picks up the file and decides that she must read it again, so she stops petting Phyllis, who remains hopeful that there is no more shit coming. She is a very patient and trusting dog.

  While Livie reads, she moves her head back and forth, as if she can’t believe what she’s reading. She reads for a very long time. Then, without warning she says, “Shit, Phyllis.”

  “I know, baby,” Livie says as an apology. “I’m sorry, and I know I need to stay calm myself because this is a big deal for me. This is the mother lode of them all.”

  Phyllis raises her head again. Two shits in such a short span of time is almost unforgivable. Livie should have put a biscuit into her bathrobe pocket. Who knew this would be a two-shit night?

  Phyllis rolls over, and Livie strokes her dog’s belly as she manages to get all the papers back into the file with her other hand. Then she throws the file on the table so that it lands close to all the other Tuesday-night files.

  Livie isn’t one to believe in reincarnation—or a life after this one, for that matter—but she does believe that animals have a level of sensitivity that is sometimes absent in humans, especially some of the humans she deals with on a regular basis. She’s utterly convinced that Phyllis is so tuned in to her emotional human vibrations that she sometimes senses things before Livie knows them herself.

  And she loves Phyllis beyond reason, but not in the goofy way of people who set up trust funds for their pets’ burial plots, make them wear sweaters, or push them through airports in strollers.

  Phyllis is a dog. She’s a sensitive soul who says “I love you” in her own special ways but knows her place ev
en as she wraps Livie around all four of her paws on a daily basis.

  “Oh, Phyllis, these women may be the death of me, but I’ve already stepped into the ring,” Livie says. “I’m going to do it; I have to do it.”

  She tells Phyllis, who hopes she never stops talking and petting, that she’s going to take on the latest challenge and that she will have her three current charges all come tomorrow night and meet the newest member before she sends them all off on another little adventure. “I’ve got ideas, so many ideas and things I’ve never tried. Maybe this is going to be fun for me, too, eh?”

  Livie keeps her hand on Phyllis for a moment as she picks up the folder again. Then she grabs a big marker and puts a black dot right in the center of the file. When she’s done, Livie taps the folder against her leg several times and then lets it rest on top of her lap while she finishes her whiskey and her thoughts gather speed.

  “I’m kind of excited and feeling frisky,” she announces as she gets up. “Brace yourself, Phyllis. The girls will think I’m off my rocker.”

  Livie glances longingly at the Jameson bottle on the counter, then walks proudly past it with Phyllis on her heels, and knows for certain that she’ll need a very large glass of whiskey tomorrow night.

  12

  Just Deserts

  In spite of the unusual nature of their anger-management therapy, thus far Grace, Jane, and Kit would all have preferred another assignment from Dr. Bayer instead of what they got: a hard-to-decipher note sent to their email addresses very, very late on Monday night. No one wants to drive back to that horrid building, but then again maybe she’ll have them all skydiving by the end of the month.

  They might as well have wished for the moon, which Dr. Bayer would probably have told them is absolutely possible, but instead there was the bold message right at the top of their in-boxes:

  Your first assignment is obviously completed. The most interesting thing about life is that so much of it is unpredictable. You must always be prepared. Who knows what might happen? How exciting! Come to class at the usual time. Please wear clothing that is comfortable and disposable—I don’t mean paper or plastic, although that is totally acceptable. I do mean something that can be, well, how should I say this—ruined, I think, is a good word. Class may run a bit longer than it did last week, but there’s also a chance it may not be as long. See what I mean?

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Bayer.

  There is a moment when they each read the message and wonder if Dr. Bayer isn’t smoking an illegal substance. Grace, who works with some of the hospital doctors who do group-therapy sessions, has never heard of anything like this happening. She is also not about to ask any of the others what they think. They would wonder why she’s asking.

  Disposable clothing? Grace has on some old green scrubs today that are so disposable she can almost see through them when she holds them up to the light.

  She decides to stay at work late on Tuesday and go to the anger meeting without stopping at home so Kelli won’t suspect that she’s at some type of forced weekly gathering, which of course she is. Not that the two of them are communicating much since her needlepointing assignment. They are often like ships passing in the night.

  Karen keeps telling her to ease up on her expectations of her daughters, especially Kelli. “She’s not a bad kid, Grace. When was the last time you two did anything together, like go out for lunch or go to the mall?” The little session they had while she was needlepointing already seems as if it never happened.

  Had Grace acted like Kelli when she was a teenager—mostly disinterested in anything but her own immediate needs? Always going someplace? Grace has stopped trying to remember. Her world as a teenager was wrapped in bright tissue paper, where true feelings were supposed to be replaced by anything that wouldn’t rock the boat.

  Grace has been thinking for a while now, even before the dreaded car incident, about how people are so busy they don’t really care about one another the way they did when time seemed to have a different meaning. She tried to remember the last time she had a conversation with someone that lasted more than five minutes or centered around something besides an immediate need. So on Monday night, well after midnight, she has also baked brownies. Bringing food always works with her own staff, who she knows would eat a dead duck if it were placed on the table, cooked or uncooked. Most people, herself included, cannot resist free food.

  When she walks into the drab meeting room, she’s surprised to see Dr. Bayer already seated and glancing through some notes on her lap. Grace notices several large paper bags behind her but doesn’t say a word. She’s afraid to ask.

  “Oh,” Grace says, surprised that someone else is so early.

  “I’m sorry,” Olivia responds quietly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I was thinking I would be here first, like I was last week. I’m always a little early.”

  “That’s a good thing, Grace. It’s very considerate of you.”

  “I also made some brownies,” Grace says, holding them out in front of her.

  Brownies?

  That’s a first, which should really not be a shock. Everything about this group is a first, and possibly a last. In all the years Olivia has led groups, and tried to save lives, and walked up the steps to this room wondering what might happen next, not one person has ever brought brownies. Some people have brought knives and guns. One woman brought her German shepherd because she was terrified of the neighborhood. Last month, a young man brought his mother. Never brownies. What a fabulous idea! It will totally fit in with the evening’s lesson plan.

  “How wonderful! Please set them down on the table and we’ll be able to use them during the meeting tonight,” Dr. Bayer says, smiling and pointing toward the back table.

  “Sure.” Grace can hardly wait to see what you can do with brownies for anger management. She tucks the aluminum foil around the edges of the pan before putting it down and then awkwardly walks to a chair and takes a seat. Her temples begin to throb immediately. Maybe she needs the sugar rush from the brownies, or maybe she’s scared of what’s going to happen next.

  Brownies? What was I thinking, bringing brownies? Maybe she’s going to make us juggle them. Grace is wondering how to get the entire metal pan inside her purse when she hears someone clicking down the hall. It sounds like Jane. This chick has no boundaries. High heels again?

  But it’s not Jane. It’s Kit, and she’s wearing maroon cowboy boots that look as old as the hills they must have ridden over. She slides into the room, skidding when her boots hit the concrete floor, and almost falls backward.

  “Whoa!”

  She even sounds like a cowgirl.

  Dr. Bayer glances up for a moment, smiles, and looks down at her papers. Grace, trying hard not to laugh at the cowgirl image parading around her mind, waves and points to a chair.

  Olivia, of course, is listening. She doesn’t need her notes or her pen or to be the greeter. These women could be textbook examples of body language. She’s betting they can’t sit still for more than a minute.

  Kit begins tapping her right foot, and twenty seconds later Grace turns to ask her if she had a good week. Both of them are dying to find out what the other had to do for the first assignment. Neither of them dares to ask.

  “So-so,” Kit reports. “I’m trying to behave. It’s like a full-time job for someone like me.”

  “Oh,” Grace responds, not sure if Kit is serious.

  Before either of them can say anything else, Jane appears at the door. She walks in quietly and everyone, including Dr. Bayer, looks at her feet. Black leather pumps have replaced the stilettos. And Jane is walking on her tiptoes.

  “Are you okay?” Kit asks this while she’s staring at Jane’s feet.

  “Of course, I’m fine,” Jane snaps. “I got stuck behind a bus and thought I might be late. I was being considerate and didn’t want to bother anyone.”

  Here we go, Dr. Bayer thinks.

  Kit shrugs, and
Olivia notices that she’s rolling her fingers into fists, in and out, as she moves her shoulders. These women are much too tense. She has just the solution.

  Jane sits down and asks, “Did you start without me?”

  “No,” Dr. Bayer says politely. “We’re going to wait a few more minutes.”

  Jane looks at her cellphone to check the time, shrugs, sits back, crosses her arms, and waits.

  It’s so quiet that all four of them can hear the second hand ticking on the huge white-and-black clock hanging behind Dr. Bayer. Then Kit starts pumping her left boot up and down so that she can keep time with the ticks.

  Dr. Bayer waits, because she has a plan. She has the patience of Kit’s Saint Agnes and every other martyr and saint. Once, during another mandatory session, she sat like this for sixty minutes when a group of men didn’t understand the meaning of the word group. It was as if they were all in the room alone. She gave them another chance the following week. Then, the week after that, she had them wait for her while she excused herself, called for a police van, had their probation revoked, and threw them all into jail.

  She’d do it again, but she doesn’t want to. These women will figure it out, and Olivia tells herself that her plan will help them do just that.

  The clock ticks through two more minutes, and finally, thank God, Jesus, Buddha, Jehovah, the sun and moon goddesses and every witch in the world, Dr. Bayer hears what she has been waiting for.

  Her three clients turn at the same moment and look toward the door. Someone has been walking very slowly up the hall and is now coming into the room—their room.

  “Is this the anger-management meeting?”

  “Yes, dear,” Dr. Bayer says. “Please, come in.”

  Jane, Kit, and Grace follow the woman as if they have choreographed their head movements and they look surprised. This woman looks like an abused drug addict. Forget about the dingy hair that she has pulled back with a rubber band. Forget about the turtleneck sweater that is so old the neck is stretched out and hangs below her collarbones. Forget about the polyester slacks and the dirty tennis shoes.