FIFTEEN
I had been in Ann Arbor for two weeks when I drove past a church on the way back from a grocery run. The sign out front read:
NONDENOMINATIONAL DIVORCE SUPPORT GROUP, TONIGHT AND EVERY TUESDAY, 7 PM. ALL WELCOME!
Support group, pshaw, I thought. I had facilitated a few support groups when I was a social worker, and I hadn’t enjoyed them all that much. One-on-one counseling had been far more rewarding, or at least it had been until someone had taken a knife to my neck.
Except now I was the one who needed support, I realized as I put my groceries away. And aside from Cathy and the baristas at Maizie’s, the coffee shop I went to most days to get my caffeine and conversation fix, I had not met a single person in town.
Still, a group wasn’t for me; I wasn’t going to go. That’s what I told myself. But after I had eaten dinner, washed my lone plate and cup, and checked email only to realize it was just six forty-five at night, I stood up from Jean’s worn farmhouse table. Maybe the support group would be a bust, but that was still better than moping around the house and wondering if I should just cry uncle and drive back to Oak Valley. I gathered my things and got in the car.
The scene at the church seemed less like life and more like a movie set. Linoleum-floored basement with circle of metal folding chairs: check. Burnt coffee and day-old doughnuts: check. Affable facilitator: check.
Upon closer inspection, the people attending the group, at least, weren’t typecast. There was a woman so young I thought surely she could not have secured a marriage license, let alone gone through a divorce. An older man in athletic apparel sat across from another even older man, who was wearing a suit. Another woman looked like the best-case scenario of me—also in her early fifties, but beautiful and impeccably groomed. A handsome man with warm brown skin sat across from me.
“So!” said the group leader, bringing his hands together. He was thin and pale, and ninety percent of his body hair had congregated in the inch of space between his nose and upper lip. “I’m Bob. As most of you know, I’m a licensed social worker as well as a divorcé, and I’ve been running this support group for the past three years.” His mustache wiggled up and down as he spoke. As I stifled a grin, the man across from me, who looked to be in his forties, caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back, which prompted Bob to home in on me. “I’m happy to see we have a new face joining us today. Welcome, welcome!”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, grateful he hadn’t asked me to introduce myself. I was pretty sure this wasn’t for me, so what was the point?
“We’re happy to have you here. Now, would anyone like to talk about the past week?”
The very young woman raised her hand and told us how disappointed her mother was about her divorce. Then one of the two older men shared how his recent wedding anniversary had left him feeling empty and alone, which prompted another man to talk about how he had gotten through a similar situation. When no one else volunteered to speak, Bob redirected the conversation. “Today I was hoping to spend a little time discussing loving kindness—that is, the idea of compassion for your ex-spouse. The Buddhist monk Jinpa Min says that loving kindness is the path to all healing. In divorce, it’s easy to get trapped in a cycle of anger and regret. But those feelings make it impossible to remember that the person you were once married to is actually a human being, rather than an archetypal villain. Only once you learn to wish your ex-spouse well will you break the cycle and begin the next step of your journey.”
“No offense to you or Buddhism, Bob, but that’s some serious bull right there,” announced the man who had smiled at me earlier.
Someone to my right gasped.
“Sorry, but it’s true.” He glanced around the circle. “I’ve got a hundred bucks that says most of us here—just by being the kind of people who show up to a divorce support group—spent years, and maybe our entire marriages and divorces, wishing our ex-spouses well, even when they didn’t deserve it.” His voice was low and measured as he said this. “Maybe I’m just speaking for me, of course. But if anything, I need help wishing myself well. Because even more than a year and a half after my split, I’m still feeling like it’s all my fault. And you know what’s really screwed up?”
“Tell it,” said the elderly man in the suit.
“When I think about my ex-wife, I am almost always wishing her well.” His voice began to rise. “It’s New Year’s; poor Lucinda, she hates this day! It’s raining! Does Lu have an umbrella? I mean, I would like to get to the point where I’m worried about how I’ll handle the holidays and whether I have weather-appropriate gear. I would like to stop wishing my ex-wife well and actually get angry with her.”
Yes, maybe anger was the key. The only real fury I had managed to exhibit toward Adam was when I had kicked him out on Thanksgiving night. (And possibly when I had called him from Benito’s—though it was unlikely I would ever find out what I had said, and that was probably for the best.) Maybe if I had torn into him when he was first leaving, he would have told me then and there that Jillian was not the problem. Then instead of sitting in a church basement, waiting for my turn to talk about how horrible I felt, I would have already healed and been—
Doing what? I thought suddenly. I didn’t even know what to wish my future would look like, and that was even more depressing than going to a divorce support group.
“Yeah,” said the young woman. “I feel the same way about my ex. I hate him, but I still somehow want good things for him.”
“Hmm,” said Bob, nodding. “That’s certainly an interesting way of perceiving it. And you’re both right. Getting through divorce is a process. It’s important to practice self-love as you work through it.”
The older man in athletic gear snickered, which sent another man in his thirties into a fit of laughter. “Self-love,” he mouthed. I found myself smiling again, and soon the entire circle was giggling like a bunch of kids.
“Let’s pause for a moment, okay?” said Bob, whose broad forehead was beginning to bead with sweat. “Please help yourself to the refreshments along the wall. We’ll reconvene in five.”
Did Styrofoam contain toxic chemicals? If so, did piping hot coffee unleash them? Would dipping a two-day-old doughnut into a small bit of coffee put me at risk? These were the pressing questions on my mind as the fortysomething man came up beside me at the coffee station, filling the air between us with the scent of cedar and citrus. “Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to introduce yourself,” he said, pouring coffee into a cup.
“I’m Maggie Halfmoon,” I whispered, “but don’t tell Bob.”
He laughed, and I decided he was all right. “Maggie Halfmoon. That’s a great name. I’m Charlie Ellery,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Charlie. I liked what you had to say back there.”
“It wasn’t too much?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks,” he said, almost shyly, looking down at his cup. “I don’t usually talk about my ex, so when I do it just kind of comes out like, blarg!” he said, mimicking an explosion with his free hand.
Now I laughed. “That’s why I try to refrain from discussing my—” I grimaced. “See, I almost just said husband. This is all pretty new for me, and I’m not finding it particularly fun, if you know what I mean.”
“Do I ever,” said Charlie.
“Ah, the power of connection!” said Bob, coming up behind the two of us. “Hope you two bring this same spirit of conversation to the group when we return!”
Charlie turned to me and subtly rolled his eyes, and I had to cough to cover my laughter.
The rest of the meeting was uneventful. There were no revelations or epiphanies, but listening to other people’s experiences did make my own seem more bearable.
Still, when the hour was up, I was questioning whether I would return the following week. What I needed most was friendship, and I wasn’t convinced a support group was the place to find it. I was still thinking about this when Charlie fell into step with me in the church parking lot.
“Brr,” he said. “This weather makes me want to die.”
It was bitterly cold, and I tucked my gloved hands into my underarms and shivered. “Or you could just move south. I hear Texas is ten percent more pleasant than death.”
I stopped in front of my car, and Charlie, who had paused in front of me, grinned. His was the bright, open face of a person with nothing to hide. Maybe mine was, too. Maybe we had the faces of people who were left behind. “You’re smarter than me, Maggie,” he said.
“Such a genius that I didn’t believe my ex-husband when he said he was leaving.”
“Come on now. That’s not your fault.” Charlie touched my upper arm lightly as he said this, and even though his gloved hand only made contact with my down-filled jacket, a wave of confusion washed over me. How could I possibly be attracted to anyone at a time like this? But attraction didn’t mean anything, I quickly reminded myself. It was how you acted on that feeling that mattered.
“Thanks. So. Um. How long have you been going to this group?” I asked him.
Snow had begun to fall, and he brushed a few flakes off his nose, which was crooked yet sculpted, like a work of art. He had crinkly eyes, with the perfect amount of webbing at the corners, and I decided he was probably closer to my age than I had originally guessed. “Two months?” he said. “Maybe three? Yeah, I guess I first started going around Thanksgiving. It’s not great, but I’ve looked and there doesn’t really seem to be that much else around.” Sadness, as unmistakable as it was brief, surfaced in his expression. Then he righted himself and smiled at me. “Maggie, I don’t think I can keep dealing with Bob by myself. Will I see you next Tuesday?”
Funny, disruptive Charlie with the great nose, who knew a thing or two about divorce: maybe he could be a friend. I smiled back at him. “I wasn’t planning to, but I think I’m going to go out on a limb and say yes.”