You Are Not Alone(19)
As I accepted my bag from the cashier, I’d imagined Sean and me sitting on the couch and talking, the way we used to. Sean is as kind as he is analytical. He wouldn’t judge me. He’d try to help.
But when I unlocked the door to our apartment, I heard laughter. Jody’s silver sandals were under the bench—along with two pairs of shoes I didn’t recognize.
“Want some sangria?” Sean said after he’d introduced me to the other couple in our living room. “Jody made it. We’re just having a quick drink before we head out to dinner.”
“There’s plenty,” Jody had added. But her tone didn’t quite match her welcoming words. I’d glanced at the pretty glass pitcher and the pink cocktail napkins with WHY LIMIT HAPPY TO AN HOUR? written in gold lettering.
“Thanks,” I’d said brightly. “Wish I could, but I’ve got plans, too.”
Then I’d shoved the six-pack, bag and all, into the refrigerator and got out as fast as possible.
* * *
Three weeks ago, I dined at the same Greek restaurant where I’m now sitting.
Then, the room felt warm and welcoming. It’s a family-owned place and Steve, the patriarch, had brought me a complimentary second glass of wine, as he sometimes does for regular customers. He’d asked me about the Malcolm Gladwell book I was reading on my phone, and I’d explained Gladwell’s ten-thousand-hour rule: An individual needs to work at something for ten thousand hours before developing an expertise in it. Steve had joked that since the recipes he used were handed down from his grandmother, they met the “century rule.” As I dug into my hot, savory falafel, I’d told him I agreed.
I’d lingered, the conversations from nearby tables wrapping themselves cozily around me.
Tonight I’m eating the same dish, sipping the same inexpensive white wine, and sitting only a few tables away.
Another stat from my Data Book: The percentage of adults who routinely eat on their own is estimated at 46 to 60 percent. Some studies show that eating alone is more strongly associated with unhappiness than any other factor, except mental illness.
This has never bothered me before.
As I pick at the falafel and a side of sautéed spinach I usually devour, I wonder if Sean and Jody and the other couple have left yet. All I want to do is take an Ambien and slip under my covers.
I’m about to ask the waitress to box up my food and bring me the check when a woman swoops past me, calling out, “Sorry! Sorry!”
I turn to look as she joins a table of four other women, making her way around to hug each in turn. They’re all around forty or so, and they seem to have the easy familiarity of old friends.
“Don’t worry, I already ordered you a vodka tonic, extra lime,” one says.
“You’ve always been my favorite,” the woman shoots back.
They continue the merry banter, their heads close together, their voices overlapping, warm laughter ringing out.
The waiter delivers my check, and this time when I reach for my Visa, I pull out Cassandra’s card, too.
Snippets from the memorial flash through my mind—the three women studying Amanda’s photo, their arms wrapped around each other; Pahked ya cah in Hahvad Yahd; Jane’s dimple flashing as she smiled at me; the warmth of Cassandra’s hand on my bare forearm as she told me to call her anytime.
Cassandra’s words echo through my mind: Connecting with each other is one of the most essential things we can do.
I took for granted what I used to have: the college boyfriend who wanted to marry me; Mel flopping onto my bed while we talked; even the coworkers from my last job, who gathered on Thursday nights for happy hour.
One by one, they’ve all slipped away.
I run my fingertips over the embossed letters of Cassandra’s name.
Jane had invited me to join them for a drink that night.
I’d give anything to go back and change my answer to yes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHAY
In a study of people who witnessed a suicide, 60 percent said they thought about the event without meaning to. 30 percent had physical reactions when they were reminded of the event, including sweating, nausea, and difficulty breathing. Almost 100 percent said the experience had a significant impact on their lives.
—Data Book, page 17
I MAKE MY USUAL banana-and-almond-butter smoothie for breakfast and leave my apartment by eight A.M., my routine on the days that I temp. My tote bag holds my lunch—a turkey sandwich, apple, and pretzels. I’ve stopped seeing Paula because even with insurance she’s expensive, but I’m trying to do some of the things she suggested. Last week I even made it halfway down the stairs of the subway—the one near my temp job.
I’ve also got the phone number of a new headhunter Jody said her brother had used.
I’d thanked her when she’d offered the lead, but I suspect Jody’s motives aren’t completely altruistic. I’m sure she’d like me out of the apartment more so she and Sean could have it all to themselves.
Plus, there’s this: A few days ago Jody was drying dishes in our kitchen—she’s a professional organizer, and our place is a lot neater since she started coming around—and she grabbed a little towel out of a drawer. It had a TOUGH MUDDER 10K logo on it.