At first Shauna’s a foal on unsteady legs, not quite trusting the question to carry her through. “Cassie’s not being unreasonable ...,” she says quietly. “I did tell her I would do that ...”
“If Cassie wasn’t speaking first,” I prod, “what would youwant? Not what youshoulddo. But if youcould. If you could do what you want, what would it be?”
I can see the moment the thought takes a leap. Cassie’s not ready for it, but I am. After weeks of sessions, that one question is going to make it all tumble out.
And it really, really does.
Shauna turns and faces Cassie. “I don’t care if the house has flowers or if we decorate for holidays—so why should I have to do it? Ineverwas affectionate—why should I have to be all of a sudden now that the kids aren’t there to give that to you? I’m relishing the quiet of the kids out of the house—why are you taking that personally? I don’t want to retire—why do I have to?” She turns back to me. “It’s not personal. It’s not aimed at hurting Cassie. It’s just me.”
It’s like watching Dorothy walking into Technicolor Oz. We just had to reveal the possibilities. The permission to chip away at “woulds” and “shoulds” has made space for “could.”
After that tumble, inevitably, there’s a lot of crying. A fair amount of hugging. And for once, Cassie doing the listening. The whole rest of the session is a doozy. Shauna’s words are messy and unprepared and rapid fire, and there’s a lot to parse. But it’s undeniably a breakthrough.
Now, I’m still a realist. I don’t think Cassie’s going to instantly stop all the nagging. I don’t think Shauna is suddenly going to stop ever tuning out. But it feels like real progress.
A reminder that we all can benefit from listening.
I walk out with that duality I often feel at the end of a workday—elated and drained. It’s counterintuitive after sitting all day and mostly listening to people talking, and yet I frequently leave my office as wound up and jazzed up as if I’d spent the day running on a hamster wheel. But I think silence can sometimes be our most active space. We often talk without thinking, but real listening takes work. It’s active in a way I’m not when I’m physically moving but mentally spaced out in a song or a daydream. It’s exhausting but deeply satisfying.
That’s what my job is—little sweeps at the pebbles in our way, until one day, hopefully, the path is clear enough that we can walk without stumbling. That’s what today’s session with Cassie and Shauna really felt like.
And in this moment, I realize what I want most is to text J about it.
I’ve been hesitating to reach out to him again over the last few days after that first burst of texts. While he said not to be a stranger, I didn’t want to overstep. I wasscaredto overstep. I talked myself out of so many potential texts, overthinking whether it was something he’d find interesting or whether it would be too much. I didn’t want to push on the fragile newness of it all.
But I need to stop doubting my gut instinct. And I don’t want to doubt that he meant what he said, because he’s never given me any reason to. I picture my own voice saying back to me,Imagine there is no “should.”
And so I take out my phone.
Nora: Do you ever finish editing something and step back and think “wow, I did a great job there”?
J: If I answer “yes,” does that make me conceited?
Nora: No! I ask because I’m feeling happy with how things went with some clients today, and I wondered if that samefeeling translates to your job. So if you’re conceited then I guess I am too.
J: Nah, I know you’re not conceited, just based on your writing. You’re like the person who would actually help out in an exit row in a plane emergency and somehow still stay calm about it.
Nora: I think the very definition of being in the exit row is that you agree to help out.
J: See! You saying that is exactly what I mean. Just because someone agrees doesn’t mean they actually do it.
J: Come on, don’t you think most exit-row people are just looking for the legroom, and then when the plane actually goes into the ocean, they’ll be the first ones jumping out?
Nora: I’ve never even considered that as a possibility.
J: You’re never going to be able to look at people on a plane the same again.
J: Sorry? (Not sorry?)
I’m grinning at my phone, but I’m jarred back to reality (and realize I should probably not walk and text at the same time) when I hear a voice call my name.
“Nora! Share the joke, please.”
I look up and see Kwan laughing at my walking/texting/grinning while sitting at a table outside the coffee shop around the corner from our building. Lucy is curled up at his feet, as though she’s a small cat and not a forty-something-pound dog. He’s got a drink that looks like it’s more whipped cream than coffee, and a deck of cards is dealt out infront of him, along with some poker chips. There are also cards waiting in front of the empty chair across from him, so whoever was there seems to have gotten up.
“Do you think people in an exit row would actually help in an emergency, or are they just there for the legroom?” I ask him, hoping to get another opinion.
“I think it’s given to frequent fliers as a perk, so I’m not guessing anyone is factoring in helping out,” he says definitively. He laughs again at the scowl that’s overtaken my face, and it takes him a few seconds to realize I was serious. “What, you were expecting everyone to be as nice as you?”
