Tina had been in a bad marriage, and so had I. I was divorced. This seemed to matter somehow.
When it was my turn to talk about my support system, I led with my ex-husband. I didn’t want the women to get the wrong idea about me. I was having a bad breakout, but I didn’t always look like this. Someone had married me and had sex with me. “We had a lot of problems in our marriage,” I said, leaving out the part that my ex-husband was having an affair. I didn’t need them thinking, Well, of course he did, can you imagine waking up to that face without makeup in the morning? “But we still care about each other. He’s still a part of my life. He’s helping me out with something that’s important to me right now.”
From Tina, a loud huh.
My pulse quickened in a way that was not unwelcome. Tina had this way of staring at you while you spoke, like she wasn’t at all listening to what you were saying and instead was trying to figure out what you weren’t saying. It had to have been why every woman who spoke to her came away with cheeks flaming, feeling unbelievably exposed.
But when I met her eye, Tina only nodded firmly, showing her approval. “I think it’s all very modern.”
* * *
The session came to a close, and everyone pitched in, bringing empty mugs and leftover cookies into the kitchen, where there was more art. I’d never seen art in a kitchen before, or a pink-and-purple rug. The offending black cat was curled up on a stack of New Yorkers on the kitchen table, and the women fawned over him, cooing. Why’d you scratch Tina, Nixon?
Frances touched me on the shoulder. “Don’t go yet, Ruth. I have something for you.”
The other women started to disperse, but Tina stuck around, scratching Nixon under his chin, telling him she forgave him for what he’d done to her.
“He got his name because he’s a thief,” Tina explained. “He steals socks and panties from the laundry bin.” At this charge, Nixon yawned. Tina purred, “You’re a panty crook, aren’t you, Nixon?”
I felt tongue-tied and hideous in the abominable kitchen lighting. If I could see Tina so clearly as to count the freckles on her nose, then surely she could see the peach-hued scales of my foundation, the mounds of pus that throbbed like sore muscles. Something I did in those situations was raise my eyebrows and frown at the same time. I’d practiced many an expression in the mirror, turning my face from side to side, trying to land on one that hid the bumps on my forehead and the ditches in my chin. This combination was the most effective, but it made me look insane. Tina glanced back at me, saw me making that face, and nodded as though that were exactly the right way to look.
“It’s weird because you think you’re going to come here and you’re going to get advice, and then if you just follow that advice, it will get better. Instead, what you learn is how to take responsibility for it.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. “Take responsibility for what?”
“Your own feelings.”
I was annoyed with her fresh California-girl face then, her slender fingers on Nixon’s soft fur. “But what do I have to take responsibility for, exactly?”
“Talk to me in a year,” Tina said in a cloying voice that was meant for the cat. “Right, Nixon?” She kissed him on the head. She turned her face and looked up at me, her cheek resting on Nixon’s cheek. “You’ll see what I mean then. This is my second cycle. I’m infatuated with the process. I’m studying to get my license. This counts as my work experience.”
Frances reappeared holding a leather diary in her hand. “Oh, Nixon!” she cried when she saw Tina cheek to cheek with him. “You’re lucky Tina has such a generous heart.” She handed me the diary. “I wrote down the first two prompts for you so that you remember them. Try and respond to the first one between now and next week.”
I opened it to the first page. One thing you did that always made me laugh…
“？‘Misty watercolored memories,’？” Tina sang to me, that Barbra Streisand song, and laughed. I realized she was dismissing me so she could speak to Frances privately. I felt I needed to assert myself, to offer something before I left. I pointed at the plate of cookies.
“Pignolis go stale fast. It’s the oils in the nuts. If you store them with a slice of bread, they’ll stay chewy longer.”
Frances looked at me, even more impressed than I’d privately hoped she would be. “What a valuable tip, Ruth.”
* * *