Zenia glowed as she discussed her relationship with Greta from Croatia—and the hours of sex they enjoyed online and how they were saving money to meet up for a convention in Brussels. Zenia smiled at me every few minutes, which I took as a generous welcome, and then segued seamlessly into a question for Dr. Rosen about how to treat one of her patients.
“Patients?” I said out loud.
“I’m a physician.”
Dr. Rosen smirked at me. That fucker was laughing at me! Oh, look at the lonely prude sitting next to the successful doctor enjoying virtual sex with her girlfriend! I narrowed my eyes and scowled at him; his smile widened. I didn’t expect him to coddle me, but I also didn’t expect him to sit on his throne and laugh at me.
Mary shared that her abusive brother—the one who had threatened to kill her all through childhood—had called to ask for money. Regina, a massage therapist wrapped in what looked like two black shawls and a flowy nylon skirt, had come in during Zenia’s sexalogue. She told Mary in a sympathetic, hushed tone that when her psychotic cousin pulled a knife on her, she filed a restraining order.
Dr. Rosen had misread my history. A fear-lump in my belly swelled as I realized this was the wrong group for me. I wanted to grab him by the crisp brown collar and remind him that yes, I’d suffered in the aftermath of Hawaii and battled an eating disorder, but there’d been no attempted murder. I’d turned out perfectionistic, frigid, and borderline asexual, but how could he think I belonged here? I was a lightweight, trifling thing, who was all “boo-hoo I wish I had a boyfriend”—I was absurd and garden-variety next to these women who were braver and more interesting and accomplished than I’d ever be.
Twenty minutes passed. Where was Marnie? She was supposed to be my swim buddy.
Marnie arrived thirty minutes into the session, dropped her orange leather bag unceremoniously on the floor, and fell heavily into her chair. I tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn’t look at me. Her jaw was set tight and her brown eyes darted around the circle, looking for prey.
“I’m so fucking tired I want to die,” she said. She’d given birth to a gorgeous baby girl six weeks earlier. “Pat’s traveling every week, and the baby won’t sleep. I can’t—” Her hands were shaking as she pulled out a bottle of Voss. I’d talked to her earlier in the morning, but she hadn’t expressed any of this anguish. Now she seemed to be pretending I wasn’t in the room. That kind of studied avoidance could only mean one thing: she was angry at me. I could no longer hear anything because I was swept up into my own panic about how to stop Marnie’s anger. I’d seen Marnie mad before. It wasn’t pretty.
The door buzzed. A woman with a giant purse with leather tassels and a Styrofoam food container walked in, and all the molecules in the room shifted. It had to be Nan—Marnie had mentioned her, but had not told me she was so radiant, throwing off energy like light beams. Though I knew she was near retirement, Nan’s skin glowed like a young woman’s. When she smiled, two dimples appeared on either cheek. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her silver sandals, the ring of keys that jangled as she set her purse behind her chair, her sly smile at Dr. Rosen when she sat down, or her mouth as she mumbled under her breath while Marnie was talking. She acknowledged me with a quick nod of her head, and I smiled back.
“IN is having its way with me today,” Nan said. “IN wants me dead.”
I looked at Dr. Rosen. IN? He looked at me but offered nothing. If I wanted to know what Nan was talking about, I’d have to ask her.
Nan picked up her Styrofoam container and lifted its lid—one compartment was filled with mac and cheese, the kind with the near-orange sauce and elbow-shaped pasta. She kept talking as she took a bite. “I’m not even hungry.” Her voice cracked. She looked at me and explained that the I stood for “inner” and the N stood for the racial slur that had oppressed her all her life. She made it clear that she—and only she—was allowed to say the full name of IN, and by God, I was not about to defy Nan. I nodded, grateful she had filled me in.
“Nan, I was talking,” Marnie said. I knew that tone. Marnie used it with Pat right before the marital spat I’d witnessed. I curled further inward and found myself holding my breath. The air was sharp, flickering with the threat of violence. I didn’t want to inhale it.
Nan pointed her fork at Marnie. “Hold. The. Fuck. Up.” I sucked in a gulp of air and held it, suspended, in my lungs.
Marnie twisted the top of her water bottle. “Wait your fucking turn.” It sounded like a warning, a hiss.
This was not like my other group, where Patrice snapped at Colonel Sanders or Carlos bickered with Rory about showing up on time. Between Marnie and Nan, I sensed something heavier, more corporeal and unstable. They were dragging their words from the depths of their bodies, not plucking them out of their heads. They were using their hands and arms. They were spitting. The air crackled with heat and something menacing.
Nan set her food down. I thought she was going to rise and roll up her sleeves, but she grabbed a napkin from her purse and wiped her mouth real slow, like a pissed-off sheriff in a Western. I let the air seep out of my lungs, tiny breath by tiny breath. They kept yelling—Marnie was a “skinny white bitch,” and Nan was “a help-rejecting drama
