House in Our Hearts

“The day he left wasn’t good or bad.”

The woman who is speaking has frizzy orange-yellow hair, like her hairdresser didn’t keep the bleach on long enough and the top needs to be colored. There is a dark river of roots across the crown of her head.

I’m sure there were other reasons why her relationship failed, but I bet her hair didn’t help.

She’s sitting in the center of the semicircle on a brown metal collapsible chair, scratching the face of her nails. The soft scraping sound fills the air every time she pauses, and she pauses a lot, like she’s weighing every word before she shares it. Her nails are bitten down too, pretty far. Maybe after the session I’ll tell her about this guy I once knew who bit his nails so far down he got this nasty greenish pus-filled bump that he had to lance, and if I’m feeling charitable, I’ll share my hairdresser’s contact information too. She’s good with corrective color.

After she says something about men being unpredictable, a few of the women snap their fingers. Whenever one of us says something worth cheering on, or if we sense the need for support, we do this. I don’t know who thought of it. Maybe one of the founding members figured it was progressive. I flick my middle finger against my thumb and join in.

She blushes. I think her name is Ginger or Jennifer, but I’m not sure.

I’ve never been good at remembering names. My husband didn’t understand it.

“Jesus, Jillian, you’ve met him like a hundred times. Ted. His name is fucking Ted.”

Now, after I meet someone, I make up name associations like Short Sally or Clingy Kim, and, that way, no one can ever say to me, “Jesus, Jillian. I’ve met you a hundred times. My name is fucking Ted.”

But today I’m not paying attention because the basement in the rec department is freezing. I always bring a sweater with me even when it’s hot for exactly this reason, but this morning I was in a hurry and left it hanging over the back of my chair, and now the only thing I can think about is how cold I am.

Before we got married, I should’ve made my husband sign a contract agreeing to not find fault in everything I did and to keep the thermostat at a reasonable number. But I didn’t. Sometimes I think my life is made up of should-haves.

Ginger or Jennifer smiles at the encouragement, but it’s lopsided and uncertain.

I send her a telepathic message. Embrace the weird. And her smile becomes more even. I concentrate harder and send, Tell me your name.

But she gets up without saying anything else.

Sharing is encouraged. We’re all in this together. Our communications reveal that, My story isn’t yours, and your story isn’t mine, but I will carry it with me, carry you with me, on my shoulders and in my soul. We are women; hear us roar. 

The group snaps again. The sound is horses running. It’s clopping heels.

Loud Lois takes the seat Ginger or Jennifer just vacated and says, “My husband is dating someone new.” The moderator gives her a look, and she backpedals. “My ex-husband. And his girlfriend is an idiot.”

These meetings are always held on Saturday nights because it’s seemingly the most difficult time for single women. I imagine bereaved mothers have one continuous meeting, but ours is slated for “date night.” I show up like I’ll get fined for missing it. Lois continues. “She took my daughter to a concert on a school night.” When this doesn’t get the response she wants, she adds, “And I’m pretty sure she let her drink.” Some of the women gasp, and now Lois looks pleased. “I mean, who gives a fifteen-year-old alcohol? What is wrong with her?” Snap. Snap. “And this is the woman he chooses? What is wrong with him?” Snap. Snap.

Old Olivia, who is not very old but who is very boring and therefore acts like she is ancient, interrupts Lois and says, “When I was fifteen years old, our school went on a class trip to Chicago. We went to the science museum, the museum of natural history, the art institute, the riverwalk, the pier, the aquarium, the zoo, and Wrigley Field.”

The moderator nods like this is the most interesting thing she’s heard all day and then says, “Olivia, when Lois is done sharing, we would love to hear more about it.”

But somewhere in the middle of Olivia’s high school memory, Lois loses steam. She says, “He’s a dick. She’s a twat. The end.”

We snap, and she sits down.

There are a few more people who talk about their feelings. One woman named Happy, who isn’t, says on the thirty-first, it would be her twenty-second anniversary. Of course, they’ve been apart for five years, but she mourns what could’ve been. And that resonates with everyone. Even if your partner was a douchebag, your future is no longer aligned with someone else’s. Breakups destroy possibilities. They desecrate dreams.

When it’s time to leave, we recite the group mantra. “We are strong. We are smart. We have a house in our hearts. There are rooms for friendships, growth, and spirit. Mirrors that recognize our talents and our merits. We will not erase what we have learned or act like women who have been scorned. We are brave. We are bold. We decide how our story gets told.” 

After the meeting, Loud Lois, Small Town Emily, and Big-Boobed Melanie, and I go to Chuck’s for beer and wine.

When we’re all seated around a high table, Lois raises her eyebrows and asks, “Wanna play?”

And, of course, we do. It’s our favorite game.

Emily starts. “I hope he’s walking down the street and falls into a broken manhole.”

Melanie says, “I hope when he’s driving he goes blind; like, all of a sudden, he can’t see, and he crashes into—”

Lois cuts her off. “You’re only allowed to pick one thing.”

Melanie rolls her eyes. “Fine, blind. I wish he was blind.”

When it’s Lois’s turn she says, “I wish that he would lose his taste.”

I wouldn’t think that was any kind of curse, but taste is connected to memory, and when people don’t have it, they can’t hold onto moments. They lose meaning. So even though it sounds pretty benign, it’s actually a good wish. A just punishment.

When it’s my turn, I say, “Fall to his death.”

But Emily says she already said that with the whole broken manhole cover, and when I argue, she says, “It’s basically the same thing.” And since both of us have given our exes similar fates, Emily is deemed the winner and gets to choose the drink. I go up to the bar and purchase martinis with blue cheese olives. Two out of three of us hate olives, and we place them on the cocktail napkin next to Emily.

As the loser from the previous round, I start.

I take a long sip of my drink and then say, “Gets explosive diarrhea on a turbulent plane.” Even though Melanie argues that that’s two things, I am declared the winner and make everyone do lemon drop shots. They are sweet with only a touch of bitterness.

As our buzz kicks in, our former lovers meet more tragic fates. They are buried alive and get their lungs punctured. They are electrified and drowned. 

The four of us go back and forth. We clink our glasses as our ex-husbands are dragged behind cars or fed to woodchippers. We laugh as they waste away from long, painful illnesses or when they are hung from rafters or trapped under ice. They deserve this form of punishment. They promised to honor, protect, and love us forever. But they lied.

Over the course of the night, my ex has starved to death, been mauled by lions, and has been poisoned and executed with a rusty sword.  Later, when I’m in bed drunk and dialing him, I feel a little guilty.

When my brother died suddenly, I stayed in our shower. The tragedy was too big. Without saying anything, my husband turned the water off and wrapped a towel around me. He grabbed a smaller cloth from the shelf and dragged it along my shoulder, across my elbow, over and under my wrist, up and down my calf, around the back, on the front of my knee, and against my neck.

He held the top of my head and combed through every single tangle. He didn’t squeeze the excess water out, and the droplets plopped down my back, but my pain mattered to him.

I picture him not picking up, and my guilt vanishes. How dare he pretend we never existed? I push every tragedy from tonight forward and send it from my mind into his. My heartache is blue, like the water he dried off my skin. It sails through the grass and crashes through the streets. It surges forward. I make the raging rapid rise until his bedroom floods, until every breath is an effort, until his chest squeezes in panic and agony like mine.