The Good Luck of Right Now(27)

“Bartholomew! I’m so proud,” she said, but it sounded too enthusiastic—fake—which depressed me. “Who was your lucky drinking partner?”

“Max.”

Her orange eyebrows popped up from behind her white sunglasses. “Max from group therapy?”

“Are two people a group? I thought there would be more than one other person in group therapy,” I said, because I did think that and had been wondering about why there were only two of us.

“We pair up people, like partners. Support buddies. We don’t want to overwhelm people like Max and you with a larger group. You need to start with small steps.”

“Max is grieving over a cat named Alice,” I said, just stating a fact.

“People grieve for all sorts of reasons. It’s probably best not to compare or try to measure.”

I nodded in full agreement, thinking the Dalai Lama would also nod if he were here.

“What did you two have to drink?” Wendy asked.

“Guinness.”

“Yum! I love Guinness! Guinness is good for you, they say. One of the healthier beers. Something about the dark color is good for your heart, I think. I read that somewhere. Makes me feel better about drinking beer when I do. So I always drink Guinness. Also, you can’t drink as many. Too filling. So it’s a safe beer too. I’m glad that you and Max—”

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” I asked. It was a logical question. People don’t often wear sunglasses indoors. Wendy had never before worn sunglasses during one of our meetings. And yet, as soon as the words jumped out of my mouth, I realized that the question was weighty and would change the nice, easy flow of the conversation. It was as if the power had shifted and I had become the counselor—or at least that’s how it felt to me. I sort of sensed that I needed to become the counselor—like something needed to be done, and I was the one to do it.

Wendy paused and took a few seconds to think about her answer. In my mind I saw her eyes look up to the left, but I couldn’t tell for sure because of the dark black lenses that were reflecting the circular light above, making two glowing circles out of one—twin robot moons.

Finally, Wendy said, “I was playing softball with my boyfriend and his buddies and I took a line drive to the face. Wanna see?”

I didn’t say anything in response, but she took off her sunglasses, anyway. Her left eye was almost swollen shut. Iridescent yellow, purple, and green filled her eye socket like an oily puddle of gasoline rainbows.

“Based on the look you’re giving me, I should probably put these back on,” Wendy said, and then she was wearing her sunglasses again, smiling—yet her smile wasn’t true, and harder to look at than the actual bruise.

Remember the bruise on her wrist last week? She wasn’t playing softball, you whispered in my mind, Richard Gere. She needs help. This woman needs saving.

I looked at her wrist, and there was still a red mark, although it had faded considerably.

The angry man in my stomach was kicking and punching away.

Her trouble was so obvious.

I began to sweat.

“Bartholomew?” Wendy said. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and looked down at my brown shoelaces.

“You don’t look so well.”

I tried hard to keep my mouth shut like always.

“What’s wrong?”

I knew that speaking my mind would only lead to trouble.

“Bartholomew?”

Something inside me was changing.

“You can talk to me. You’re safe here. You can—”

I knew I had lost control when the words started to leave my mouth.

My mouth said, “Looking at your bruised eye—I could feel your pain. That happens to me sometimes.” I said it before I could stop myself. I had not spoken this freely and openly for a long time. It was like you, Richard Gere, were speaking through me. It was like I was acting maybe. Saying the words in a script. And I knew from experience that saying such things made me lonely—left me friendless. I didn’t want to say these things.

Moron! the tiny man in my stomach yelled.

(I have to say that everything seems to be unraveling lately. Or maybe it seems as though I am a flower myself, opening up to the world for the first time. I don’t know why this is, and I’m not really in control of it either. Flowers do not think, Okay, it is now May, so I will reach up toward the sun and relax my fist of petals into an open hand. They do not think at all. Flowers just grow, and when it is time, they shoot colors out of their stems and become beautiful. I am no more beautiful than I was when Mom was alive, but I feel as though I am a fist opening, a flower blooming, a match ignited, a beautiful mane of hair loosened from a bun—that so many things previously impossible are now possible. And I have been wondering if that is the reason I did not cry and become upset when Mom died. Do the colorful flower petals cry and mourn when they are no longer contained within a green stem? I wonder if the first thirty-eight years of my life were spent within the stem of me—myself. I have been wondering about a lot of things, Richard Gere, and when I read about your life I get to thinking that you also have had similar thoughts, which is why you dropped out of college and did not become a farmer like your grandfather or an insurance salesman like your father. And it’s also why so many people thought you were aloof, when you were only trying to be you. I read that you used to go to the movies by yourself when you were in college and you’d stay at the movie house for hours and hours studying the craft of acting and storytelling and moviemaking. You did all of this alone. This was maybe when you were in the stem—before you exploded into the bloom of internationally famous movie star Richard Gere. Such vivid colors you boast now! But it wasn’t easy for you, I have been learning by researching your life. So much time spent acting on the stage. You lived in a New York City apartment without heat or water, one book reported. And then you made many movies before you became famous—always trying to beat out John Travolta for roles, and being paid so much less than him. But now you are Richard Gere. Richard Gere!)