The paperback novel lies open in my lap. A Room For Eleanor. The current literary rage. Four hundred pages of angst and introspection.
Perching my funky new reading glasses on the bridge of my nose, I glance down at the page. The final chapter, thank God. If I have to spend one more week reading about the depressed and depressing Eleanor, I’ll need a room, too. At the psychiatric pavilion.
I look up for a moment, scan the group of four women, all wearing glasses of some kind or another, and one man whose vision must be better than mine, since he’s lens-free. Ten folding chairs sit empty behind them. We started the club a year ago with fifteen members. Fourteen women and Oliver something-or-other, the sharp-eyed old charmer who sits at the end of the first row beside my mother. The club has dwindled to these five people; I don’t know why.
Lifting the novel, I begin to read aloud from chapter twenty-three.
“Eleanor locked the bathroom door, turned to the mirror then lifted the tweezers to her right eye. ‘No more,’ she whispered, plucking one lash then another and another, numb to the pain. ‘No more…’”
As I read, my mind drifts to my session with the Hoyts this morning. I almost crossed the line, let my personal feelings affect my professional objectivity. I transferred my anger at Bert to Roger Hoyt. That scares me. I have no business counseling couples if I can’t keep my own emotions out of the equation. I should’ve made every effort to connect with the man, prove myself to him, gain his trust, not put him on the defensive.
“She turned on the faucet and water spilled out, over her hand, into the tub, warm, soothing water to wash away the pain. And Eleanor whispered, ‘No more…’”
It’s just that, when I saw the Hoyts sitting across from me, middle-aged, miserable, together yet miles apart, I felt I was looking at a photo of Bert and myself from a year ago. Then Roger Hoyt finally started to talk, and I saw my own feelings reflected in his wife’s eyes. Humiliation. Self-doubt. Fear. For a second…okay, maybe more like five minutes, I envisioned the two of us tackling the balding Don Juan, strapping him to the sofa, face-up, castrating him with a dull pair of fingernail scissors.
Not good. Not good at all.
“The water surrounded Eleanor; her legs, her body, her face, filling her with peace, with truth. All her life, she had tried to avoid what she knew in her heart. ‘No more,’ she thought now. ‘No more.’”
I yawn. Okay, so maybe I do have an idea why the reading group has dwindled.
Halfway through the second scene, a loud snuffle brings my head up.
Mary Fran Hawkins and Frances Green, otherwise known as “The Frans” since they share not only similar names, but also an apartment, snore in rhythm, their chins on their chests. Mary Fran’s book is on the floor. Frances still holds hers open, though it’s migrating toward her knees.
I guessed the first second I met them that The Frans are lesbians, but Mother refuses to discuss it. According to her, it’s an inappropriate assumption on my part and none of our business one way or another. But whether she’ll admit it or not, I’m sure she knows it’s true. Like she’s always telling me, her eyesight’s bad, but she’s not blind.
Between The Frans and my mother, Doris Quinn files her nails and hums quietly to herself. Not a single silver hair on her head is out of place. She’s a tiny, twittery, totally feminine woman. Always upbeat. Always ready to bat an eye at any man who happens to glance at her. Eager to sympathize with their hard luck stories. I can imagine Doris being the “other” woman in her younger days. The equivalent of Roger Hoyt’s Bitsy or one of Bert’s baby-faced…
There I go, doing it again. Transferring my anger at Bert to someone else. Comparing a sweet, romantic woman of eighty who loves people and life to one of Bert’s bimbos.
At the end of the row of book lovers in front of me, jolly Oliver something-or-other, his book face-down in his lap, grins as he whispers something to Mother. She blushes, but pretends to ignore him, her gaze fixed on her copy of A Room For Eleanor, which she holds in both hands upside down.
“Eleanor opened her eyes, gazed up through the rippling water. Life shimmered above her, painful, chaotic, unpredictable life. She—”
“The End,” I say five paragraphs before the final line. I slap the book closed. The noise snaps The Frans to attention.
“So, what did you think?”
Doris stops filing her nails and sighs. “Remarkable. A masterpiece.” She presses a palm to her chest. “The ending…” She sighs. “It makes a person think, doesn’t it? There was so much wisdom in it, so much hope, so much—”
“Bullshit,” Mary Fran mutters, rubbing sleep from her eyes and eliciting a snicker from Frances.
Doris flinches. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought it was an interesting selection, Cecilia,” Mother cuts in before Mary Fran can elaborate. “Another fine choice on your part. Very thought-provoking, as Doris said.”
Oliver smirks at her. “Come on now, Belle. It was a real stinker, and you know it.”
Doris points her fingernail file straight up. “Perhaps one person’s odor is another’s perfume.”
The Frans snort.
“Thanks for the show of support, Mother. You, too, Doris. But I have to agree with the others.” I tap a finger against the book’s cover. “I don’t get it. The book’s been at the top of the bestseller lists for over a month.”
Oliver winks at me. “There’s no accountin’ for taste, CiCi.” He scans the room. “No offense, but we’re gonna have to liven things up around here or pretty soon you’ll be reading to a bunch of empty chairs.”
I’m surprised by the look of distress that passes across Mother’s face at his comment. Wondering about it, I reach down for my briefcase then place it in my lap. I pop the latches, open the lid, pull another Oprah-esque book from inside. “I’d planned this for our next selection.” I hold the book up so the group can see the bland cover.
Everyone groans. Even Doris and my mother.
“Okay. I’m open for suggestions.”
As they debate whether the next title should be a mystery, a family saga or an action adventure, I return both books to my briefcase. That’s when Penelope’s Passion catches my eye. The story has become my new addiction; I can’t get enough of it. Or, to be honest, I can’t get enough of the captain. I’ve been trying to squeeze in a paragraph or two between patients whenever possible. I tell myself it’s a healthy diversion from reality. What’s the harm in a little fun?
Well, I’ll tell you.
Yesterday I met with two of my regulars, a sixty-year-old shoe salesman and his wife of thirty-five years. They blame his mother’s penchant for going barefoot and wearing red toe-nail polish when he was a boy for his obsession with women’s footwear and feet. Toes specifically. He’s partial to sucking them and struggles to restrain the urge at work. While they talked, I caught myself thinking about a scene in Penelope’s Passion where the captain and Penelope make love for the first time. In my daydream, though, I was Penelope.
Pathetic, I know. My mind should be on my patient’s abnormal preoccupation with Jimmy Choo shoes, not on being seduced by some make-believe macho man. Still, the toe-sucker left my office happy, so I suppose it didn’t hurt that my mind wandered a bit while he talked.
Studying the wrinkled faces before me, I remember Mother’s bread beater, which I’ve nicknamed “BOB,” as in battery-operated-boyfriend. Maybe she isn’t the only one here, me included, who misses intimacy. These senior citizens would probably appreciate a healthy diversion, too. The