Текст книги "Give Me Yesterday"
Автор книги: K. Webster
Соавторы: Elle Christensen
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
I scan the small room of the Lincoln community center and search for the newbie. The meeting starts in a couple of minutes and she still hasn’t arrived. When Larry Collins emailed me yesterday afternoon about a new member named Victoria Larkin, I added her to the role sheet. His email had been short and to the point, piquing my curiosity about my newest member.
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.”
She relaxes in my arms and rests her cheek against my chest. In her heels, she’s not much shorter than I am. I inhale her scent again and decide I very much like whatever perfume she wears. When her sobs become hiccups and sniffles, I pull away to look at her.
The woman I first met is gone. I’m now staring at this vulnerable shell of a woman with tearstained cheeks and desperate eyes. Desperate for connection. My chest squeezes with mutual respect and understanding. Cort always wonders why I can’t settle on a girlfriend. After enough vapid complaining of chipped nail polish or which Kardashian is getting a divorce next, I always grow tired of the lack of emotional connection. Those women haven’t suffered a great loss like I have. While they’re bitching about things that don’t even matter, my heart aches for things that do. And now, as I stare at this beautiful, mourning angel, I understand this very clearly.
I’m drawn to Tori Larkin, with her pit-bull exterior and fragile, fragmented interior that she so fiercely protects. As if on cue, I watch her walls click and lock into place while she chases her moment of weakness away.
She’s not getting off that easy.
“You know what you need?” I say with a quirked brow.
Her fingers push against my chest and she staggers away from me. Straitening her back, she wipes the last of her tears away and scrunches her brows at me. “What?”
“A depression dog.”
She frowns and shakes her head. “I don’t do animals. Or people for that matter. Now please, do me a favor and mark my attendance so I can make my boss happy, but I’d really prefer to leave if it’s okay with you.”
I chuckle. “I wasn’t talking about a puppy. I was talking about food. I’ll let you leave, but you have to have dinner with me. Have you never eaten a depression dog?”
When she frowns at me, I laugh. “Tori, you’re missing out. A Chicago-style hot dog. Mustard, tomatoes, relish…pickle? Come on, woman. Have you no local culture?”
“I don’t eat hot dogs,” she groans. “And, I’m quite cultured, I can assure you.”
“Well,” I say, tossing her a smug grin, “too bad. I’m hungry and you want to leave. Let’s kill two birds with one stone and make the both of us happy.”
She grimaces as if the word sours her stomach. “I don’t do happy.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I pin her with a firm stare and seize her wrist with my hand. “Well, Tori, its high passed time that you do. Let’s go eat. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Chase sticks his head back into the room and excuses us, his warm hand still enveloping mine, causing little tingles where our skin is pressed together. Then he practically drags me out of the building and down the sidewalk in front of the downtown community center. We cross under the L and stop at a small hot dog vendor at the edge of Grant Park. Irritation is giving way to full-blown anger again as the wind off the lake begins to whip my hair around. I try desperately to smooth it back into place, but I know it’s no use. I even used that extra layer of hairspray I’d forgotten a few days ago.
Chase orders two dogs with the works and I wrinkle my nose at the mess wrapped in foil the vendor hands over. He gives the guy money and I tamp down my instinct to not let anyone do anything for me. If he’s going to force me to eat that, he can damn well pay for it. Jackass.
His arm loops through mine, applying pressure to keep ahold of me when I try to pull away and walks us over to the big, exquisite fountain, with the wide rim used like a park bench by the pedestrians milling around. He sits and tugs me down next to him, passing me one of the dogs. I unwrap it gingerly, as though any minute it’s going to jump out and bite me.
“Come on, Tori. Just give it a chance. It’ll melt some of your worries away. I promise.” His chocolate brown eyes take on the look of a puppy dog, the stylish, black-rimmed glasses framing them. I fight back a small smile, determined not to let him get to me.
“Fine.” I sigh long and loud, then bring the treat to my lips and inhale the savory smell of the beef. Holy hell. I’d forgotten how that scent alone could make my mouth water. Taking a bite, I suppress another sigh of bliss, but I’m not able to keep myself from closing my eyes and reveling in the taste of my childhood.
When I was young, my father would pull me out of school a couple of times a year and bring me to the city. We’d ride the metro from the suburbs and spend the day exploring. Just us. Sometimes, we visited a museum or went to a musical, the zoo, Navy Pier, all of the places a tourist should hit and many of which natives never take the time to enjoy. They are some of my most treasured memories, and I know it would have been the same for Ben and Sarah. That thought brings my reverie to a screeching halt.
My eyes open and I glance over to see Chase staring at me, his mouth slightly ajar, and an odd look on his beautiful face. And, damn, this guy is fucking gorgeous. When I first spied him upon my entrance to group, I was struck speechless for a moment. My stomach clenching at the god sitting in a stupid, plastic chair. When I could think again, I stalked over to sit by him, figuring he was in the same boat as me, attending under duress. His dark brown hair flopped over his forehead a little messy in a way that said he was constantly running his fingers through it. His glasses, somewhere between preppy and nerd, were perched on his straight nose, accentuating his high cheek bones, full lips, and velvety brown eyes, with dark lashes that I completely coveted. As if that stunning face wasn’t enough, he wore a blue, long sleeve, Henley thermal, with the top two buttons undone, exposing the cords of his neck—since when is a neck sexy?—and the fabric tugging slightly over his defined chest and arms. His long, jean-clad legs extended out far in front of him, his height making a mockery of the small, tan chair.
To make matters completely worse, when he finally stood to start class—the jerk—I got an eye full of the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen. And that’s saying something, considering the amount of athletes I represent. His now slightly open mouth highlights a row of straight white teeth. Is there anything about this guy that isn’t sexy as fuck? When he notices my returned stare, a smile breaks out on his face and a—Oh shit, I’m so screwed—dimple pops out on his left cheek. To my surprise, heat starts to burn low in my belly and I shift uncomfortably at the signs of physical attraction that are somewhat foreign to me after all of these years. Guilt suffuses me. This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. Isn’t that a betrayal to Ben?
“You haven’t truly enjoyed anything in a long time, have you?” Chase’s soft voice breaks the connection. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sexy expression on a woman’s face. Maybe that’s stepping over the line.” An adorable pink tinges his cheeks. “But I get the feeling that stepping into your space is the only way to pull you out of it.”
I squirm a little at the way he’s looking so deeply into my eyes, praying that he isn’t seeing into my soul. I don’t want anyone to see how broken I am. I straighten my spine and give him an icy glare, “You can step wherever you want… that doesn’t mean you’re going to get anywhere.”
I don’t get the reaction I’m expecting. His smile widens and he winks at me, continuing to melt my frozen exterior one icicle at a time. “We’ll see,” he whispers.
I’m so done with this. I change the subject and go back to munching on my snack. “What is it you do, when you’re not giving hapless people a false sense of hope in finding closure, of course?” My arrow hits the intended target, and a brief look of annoyance flashes in his eyes. Instead of triumph, I feel sad that I wiped the smile off of his face.
“I’m a professor at UC.”
“Go, Maroons,” I quip, mockingly, but without any bite.
His brows raise in surprise. “You’re an alum?”
I nod, taking another bite of the messy goodness. One bite left, I sigh internally, disappointed that my moment is almost over. “UC law? Impressive,” he states.
I frown, I don’t like talking about myself, “What do you teach?”
“Evolution and Economics of Human Behavior.”
I suppress a groan. Great, the guy is practically a shrink.
“Leading the grief group came pretty naturally, especially since it helped me so much when I was in the same boat. Still am sometimes, I guess.”
Another bit of me defrosts. I wonder who he lost, but I’m trying not to care, so I don’t ask. I take my last bite of heaven and ball up my trash, then wipe my hands down with a wet nap, before checking to make sure my clothes are still spotless.
“Why divorce law, Tori?”
I make a frustrated noise. “It’s Victoria, and I think we’ve had enough analyzing for the day. Don’t you?”
Chase laughs, and the sound is contagious, causing a small smile to turn my lips up before I can suppress it. He grabs my hand and when I tug lightly to pull away, he squeezes it gently. “This wasn’t analyzing, Tori. It was simply getting to know you. I’m not your teacher or your therapist, but I’d very much like to be your friend, and I think you need one desperately.”
He clearly hasn’t gotten to know me.
“I don’t have friends. I don’t need anybody. I’ve done just fine on my own for nearly ten years now. It works for me.”
Chase squeezes my hand again. “Does it?”
He lets go, then stands and offers me his hand to help me up. I take it because it’s the lady-like thing to do, but am shocked when he pulls me in for another embrace and speaks quietly in my ear, “Are you really living, Tori? I think you’ve been hiding and it’s time for you to live. They would want that for you, you know.”
I don’t respond. I want to lash out in anger, but I’m consumed with sorrow, leaving little room for the resentment I’m trying to cling to.
Would they? Would they want me to go on without them, as though they never were?
Stepping out of his embrace, I nod, giving him the impression that I agree. Like before, his probing eyes study me and I get the impression that I haven’t fooled him in the least.
“Well,” I say awkwardly, “I’ll, um, see you next week.”
I start to pull away, but he tightens his arms just a fraction, and shivers—those damn shivers—race down my spine.
“Have lunch with me this week.”
I shake my head vehemently, afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll agree. It seems like Chase could make me feel things, and I don’t like to feel anything.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid to spend time with me? The ice queen?” He raises an eyebrow at me in challenge.
I’m a grown woman, not a child who can’t refuse a dare. I open my mouth to tell him this, “Fine.”
What? My inner self screeches. Shit. I knew if I opened my mouth…
“Great!” Chase beams at me. “How about Wednesday?”
I run through my calendar in my head.
“The only time I have is on Tuesday.”
Chase’s face falls suddenly, a frown marring the perfection, looking over my shoulder and into the distance. His arms drop and he is no longer holding me. I feel a sense of loss and loneliness steal over me. He shakes his head, swallowing hard, and returns his gaze to mine, stopping the movement when they connect.
“Okay, Tuesday it is. I’ll meet you at your office at noon.”
I shift my weight from foot to foot, over thinking what it would look like if I left my office with a guy. Would it revoke my membership in the bitch club? Or make my co-workers think I’m approachable? I stop and roll my eyes at my train of thought. Since when do I care what people think? It’s not like they have the power to hurt me. “All right. I’ll meet you in the lobby. Noon. See you then.”
Chase is back to beaming at me and I am transfixed by the expression for several moments. I’m struck even more when I feel a return smile sliding across my face. It’s an odd stretch on the muscles. Has it been that long since I used them?
He walks me back to the center, and as if my world wasn’t already tilting on its axis, it begins to spin when Chase quickly hauls me back into his arms and places a soft kiss on my cheek before abruptly letting go.
“Tuesday,” he winks and strolls off down the sidewalk.
I spend most of Sunday cleaning my house from top to bottom, the mindless work keeping me from second-guessing my decision to have lunch with Chase. In the late afternoon, I shower and get ready to make my weekly sojourn into the past. For the most part, this trip is why I still have a car. It’s not like I use it to go to my childhood home frequently, or at all if I can help it.
Grabbing my keys and a light sweater, I trudge down to the garage and get into my blue Prius and head east to the town where I grew up. I pull off the freeway and drive the quiet streets to the Meadowland Cemetery. The plots are in the section on the left, so I turn and park on the side of the street, then reach back to get the little something I brought. The sound of the car door closing echoes in the silence, a cloud of melancholy shades the wide open spaces.
Three rows down, two rows over, the third plot in. I stop in front of a marble, gray headstone and the smaller one just beside it. There is a third plot, just waiting for me, on the other side of my little Sarah. As I do every week, I wish fervently that I could have my yesterday back, and if not, I wish that they had filled all three spots that day. There are small bouquets of flowers in front of each stone, as there are most weeks, and I dip to lay my lavender roses on the grass in front of Ben, and sweet purple daisies for my little girl.
“I miss you both, so much it hurts.”
I’ve long since stopped crying, but today there is a crack in the dam and the floodgates threaten to open. I’m confused. I sit at their feet and wonder at what they are thinking. Are they living somewhere? Can they see me?
“Am I living, baby girl? How can I when you never got the chance?”
Nothing but silence whispers on the breeze. “I could never replace either of you, so what am I thinking letting that man get in my head?”
Again, no answer.
I sigh and stand, brushing the blades of grass from my ratty jeans. Sunday is the only day I let my hair down—figuratively speaking, but at least it’s in a messy ponytail—and dress as though I don’t have a permanent stick up my ass. I blow them both kisses and with a heavy heart, I start the walk back to my car. My heart thuds hard for a moment so I look back. I miss them every day, but for the first time in ten years, I’m walking away from their graves without a crushing sense of guilt.
