Pen Pal(11)

But knowing as I do that my mental health is fragile, I decide to attend a local grief group.

The meeting is held in a room at the senior’s center. A dozen or so folding metal chairs are arranged in a circle in the middle of an expanse of ugly brown carpeting. Against one wall, a rickety wood table is dressed with a white plastic cloth and set up with coffee and tea service and a tilting stack of Styrofoam cups. Posters of smiling seniors are tacked around with reminders to get your annual flu shots. The lone window looks out over the parking lot and the rainy evening beyond.

A few people are already sitting down when I arrive. I can tell by the way they’re chatting that they all know each other. Feeling anxious, I head over to the table with the coffee and pour myself a cup. As I’m debating whether or not I’ll stay or run out the door and make a quick escape, a woman walks up beside me and reaches for a Styrofoam cup.

“First time?” she asks, pouring herself a coffee.

“Yes. You?”

“Oh no. I’ve been coming to this group for six years now.”

She turns to me, smiling. She’s brunette, fortyish, and chic, wearing heels, an ivory Chanel suit, and a huge diamond ring on her finger. Her skin is flawless. Her haircut costs more than my entire outfit. She’s incredibly pretty.

I feel like a clod of dirt standing next to a unicorn.

She says, “You don’t have to participate if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure to join in, you’re welcome to simply sit and listen. That’s what I do. Sometimes just being around other people who understand what you’re going through is enough. Jan’s the group leader.”

She gestures to a lanky gray-haired woman in a flowing paisley dress who’s walking through the door. Jan greets the group and takes a chair, dropping her bulky purse onto the floor.

“I’m Madison,” the woman beside me adds.

“Hi, Madison. I’m Kayla. Nice to meet you.”

I want to ask why she’s here but don’t. I don’t know the rules yet. And I don’t want to offend someone being so nice who can probably tell I’m panicking.

As if she can read my mind, she says, “My daughter was kidnapped when she was four years old. The police never found her.”

I almost drop my coffee. Instead, I cover my mouth with my hand and whisper, “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”

Madison takes a sip from her cup, then stares down into it as if searching for something.

“It was my fault. I let go of her hand while we were shopping at the mall. Just for a second, to check a text from my husband, but when I looked up, she was gone.”

She lifts her head and meets my eyes. Her own are haunted.

“That’s the worst thing. That it was my own fault. That and not knowing if she’s still alive. The FBI said if a missing child isn’t found within twenty-four hours, they most likely never will be. They gave up on the search after six months because there were no leads. It’s as if Olivia disappeared into thin air. And every day since, I wonder what happened to my baby. Who took her. What they might have done to her.”

Madison’s eyes glaze over as if she’s gazing at something far away. Her voice drops.

“Olivia would be ten years old now. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent searching child pornography sites on the dark web, looking for her. The only thing keeping me from killing myself is the hope that one day, I’ll see a girl in one of those awful videos with one blue eye and one brown, and I’ll get to hold her again.”

I think I might throw up. My hands shake so badly, the coffee in the cup sloshes around, almost spilling over the rim.

Madison turns her haunted gaze to me. Her sophisticated veneer has dropped. She seems to have aged ten years in a few minutes, leaving her looking like exactly what she is:

A woman living in hell.

Tears welling in her eyes, she says hoarsely, “Do you think she could forgive me?”

I want to burst out sobbing. But I rest my shaking hand on her forearm and say, “There’s nothing to forgive. The person who took her is evil. It wasn’t your fault.”

She smiles sadly. “That’s what my therapist says. But I don’t believe it. Neither did my husband. He left me for someone else. Someone much younger. I just heard they’re having twins.”

A voice calls out, “If everyone would like to sit down, we can get started.”

Stunned and sick to my stomach, I glance over at the group. Jan is waving to two people just coming through the door. When I turn back to Madison, she’s already pulling away.

I grip her arm and say desperately, “Has it helped you, this group?”

She looks at me for a brief moment before saying softly, “What do you think?”

Then she turns and walks away. She takes a seat at the circle and looks down at her coffee.

No one greets her. She doesn’t acknowledge anyone else, either. It’s as if she’s in her own little bubble of pain, cut off from everything else.

I picture myself six years from now telling a stranger at this very coffee table about what happened to my husband and having her ask me if the group has helped, and know without a shadow of a doubt that my answer would be the same as Madison’s.

A big fat fucking no.

I set my cup down on the table and walk out without looking back.

Across the street from the senior center is a bar called Cole’s. Its yellow neon sign glows like a beacon. Ignoring the rain and not bothering with the crosswalk, I run straight across the boulevard and plow through Cole’s heavy wooden front door.