“She had a ministroke,” Valeria added, shaking her head. “They say she’ll recover, but she needs to take it easy.”
“Then why are we here instead of the hospital?” I asked.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Christine said. “But her family’s asked for privacy.”
“And by ‘family,’ we mean the son who’s never around,” Althea added. “The irony.”
I stared at Eileen’s empty seat, processing the news.
“We’ve all been praying for her since it happened,” Sonia said.
“And I lit a candle for her when I got the news,” Lupita added.
That was my first inclination that there was some sort of back-channel communication between them. “When did ithappen?”
“Yesterday morning,” from Christine. “My sister works at the hospital. She let me know, and I shared it with the group.”
Trying to hide my offense, I said flatly, “Well, I didn’t get a message.”
“I’m sorry,” Christine apologized. “When we first met, you said you were only coming because you took your grandson to the LEGO club.”
“And Eileen said you were just getting situated in town. We didn’t want to bother you,” Althea concluded.
My mouth dropped as I eyed each one of their faces. They stared back at me as though their collective excuse was valid. Wait… Was this the impression I had given them? That I didn’t want to be bothered? That I wouldn’t want to know if our leader had had a stroke?
“I don’t know what kind of monster you all think I am, but I do want to when know somebody in this group goes down,” I managed to say with a chuckle.
“Girl, stop being so dramatic,” Althea said. “You’re new. We don’t know you like that yet.”
I took my stance. “Well, I’m here to stay. You all and my housemate are the closest people I have to family living in this town. I’m all in.”
“Great.” Christine smiled at me. She lifted a card from her purse. “Sign it.”
Writing my name on that card next to well wishes from the others felt like signing my name to the sisterhood roll.You are sorely missed, Eileen. Praying for your swift healing and return! With Love, Joyce.
“I propose we do something different tonight,” Lupita said.“Journaling.”
Half the room snarled, the other half cooed. I was a snarler. Writing just wasn’t my thing. Ever since my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Batton, had rapped a ruler on my knuckles for incorrect pencil grip, I’ve had a thing about printing words on paper. Word processors and, later, computers saved me from reliving that traumatic memory.
Lupita ripped lined paper from a spiral notebook she had waiting in the wings. “Everybody take a few sheets. Get one of these books off the shelf so you’ll have something to write on. I have a few prompts we could use. Does anyone need a pen?”
“This ain’t school,” Valerie fussed.
Thank God I’m not the only one.
“It’s free therapy,” Christine countered. “We’re all feeling down because of Eileen. If we write a little bit, then share either what we wrote or how it felt to write, we’ll leave a little lighter.”
Sonia shrugged. “It’s worth a try.” With that, she tilted the scale in favor of journaling.
“Okay, ummm… Let me open my app.” Lupita hummed out loud.
All of a sudden, I felt Mrs. Batton looking over my shoulder, warning me that I’d better not “scribble scrabble” all over this beautiful white paper.
I’m sixty, not six years old. I’m not Li’l Joy. I’m Big Joy. Biiiiiig Joy. Joyce. Hicks.
Lupita directed, “First, let’s take a minute to close our eyes and breathe slowly, in and out. Get the oxygen flowing through the system, get centered. A minute starts now.”
Those sixty seconds felt as good as a steaming-hot bubble bath. My joints tingled with a warmth I couldn’t put words to.
