“But, real talk, you could probably get away with whooping Wardell a time or two. You’ve got that over-civilization syndrome. I saw it on a Hulu show. True crime.”
“Is that like affluenza?” Lupita asked.
“Kind of. She’d been socialized to be perfect. Somehow, the wife was found not guilty,” Sonia informed us, though I couldn’timagine anyone in Texas over the age of forty who hadn’t heard about Candy Montgomery. Even if they hadn’t heard of her back then, her story was all over the streaming networks.
“We arenotplanning violent acts as we convene on library property,” Eileen declared, followed by, “But we do have a book about that case on our shelves.”
Sonia pointed. “Give it to Christine.”
Christine playfully slapped her hand away.
“She doesn’t have to kill him,” Lupita pointed out. “She just has to leave him. You know what they say—the minute you leave a man, he suddenly becomes everything you ever wanted him to be.”
That explained Eric making breakfast for Elijah. And Breanne.
I liked all the women, probably because I was somewhere in between Christine and Sonia. Primed for perfection, but finding myself in the fallout of reality. Picking up little pieces of me—like debris—since the divorce. My voice, my thoughts, my dreams all scattered about as I held it together for my husband and my children, who hadn’t asked to be born. They deserved an intact family, I’d lectured myself for decades.
Really, before the divorce, when perimenopause hit. All of a sudden, I didn’t have an over-civilized bone left in my body. My rose-colored glasses fell off, and I understood that my husband didn’t love me. He loved what Ididfor him, but not me. NotJoyce.
Our meeting concluded with gathering into a group huddle and Eileen reading a quote out loud: “If you can only take one step today, then take one step today.”
“Good one,” Althea said, her face brimming with the same gratitude that swelled through my heart.
The Chapter Chatters had done me good. When Eileen had first told me about the group, I had no intention of coming. Sittingaround talking to women without actually doing anything productive—lesson planning, grading papers, folding clothes, cleaning the church, braiding hair, something—seemed like a privileged, first-world thing to do. Yet I felt better than I had in a long time, just being heard and meeting women who had already traveled down D-Word Lane, and I had Eileen to thank for that. I did so as the room cleared.
“You’re welcome. It’s a fun bunch.”
“I agree.”
“Think you might join us again?” she asked, her voice full of hope.
“I don’t know. My grandson’s only here for a few weeks. And like I said earlier, there’s so much work to do still with my house. By the time I’m finished, I might need a job!” I half joked.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a retired elementary school teacher.”
Eileen perked up. “Well, you’re in luck. Christine and Valerie are retired educators, too. They’re both well connected with Robin Creek schools. I’m sure they can point you in the right direction. You want me to reach out to them?”
The power of a small town. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure thing.” She stopped pushing the chairs into place and stood in front of me, hands clasped across her stomach like she was giving an Easter speech. “Just remember, Joyce. Even though you’ve got a lot going on, it’s important to make taking care of yourself a priority on your list of things to do.”
Her words gave me pause, in a good way. “Thank you, Eileen.”
She winked and resumed straightening up the room.
I sat on an old bench right outside the LEGO meeting room, watching as the children put away their toys, digestingEileen’s words. She was right. I mean, I used to journal. I used to get my nails and hair done regularly, and doing so used to feel like pampering. But then, when my life got super busy around the time my kids were teens, keeping those appointments got hectic. And then when the pandemic hit and I stopped for a while, I really didn’t want to go back to the salon. My nails regained their strength, my hair was long enough for a quick ponytail, and I got used to seeing myself without makeup, quite frankly.
It was Eric Sr. who made a remark that it was time I “got back to looking like myself” when the restrictions were lifted. When that happened, I loathed going to the salon. It was Eric-care, marriage maintenance. Definitely not self-care.
I gathered Elijah from his group, and we began the walk around the square to my car. “How was it?”
“Cool. They showed me how to make a robot, with wires and everything. The leader, Mr. James, his son is Michael, and Michael’s in the same grade as me. Do you know about electricity conduction?”
“A little,” I told him.
“What did you do while I was in class?” he asked.
