“Probably one of the most talented lawyers I’ve ever seen.” He’s praising me, not firing me?

“However…” There it is. “Today’s actions were completely unacceptable.”

Again, I know to stay silent until he’s finished.

“It was also completely unlike the woman I know. But the problem I’m facing is that this other woman is somewhere inside you and I can’t have her making another appearance.”

Defeat. Failure. These are not things I’m used to. My head hangs as they burn me up. I fear the minute he lets me go, I’ll burst into flames until I am nothing but a pile of ash.

“Second chances are hard to come by in this business, but I’m going to give you one, Victoria.”

My head whips up to meet his steady hazel eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I sputter, “what?”

“I think you’re worth it.” He is studying me thoughtfully. “I don’t know the details, but I know enough from your files, and the way you stay unattached to everyone and everything... You haven’t dealt with your grief, Victoria.”

Everything inside me withers like a raisin in the sun. Don’t go there, I plead wordlessly. Please, don’t—

“I want you to get help.”

No. no. no. I’m chanting in my head, hoping I’m imagining this entire conversation. Wondering if I wouldn’t rather be fired.

“If you’ll agree to go to counseling, you’ll keep your job and we won’t speak of this incident again.” His eyes are soft with understanding, and I remember that Larry is a widower. But it’s not the same, damn it! His wife was in her late fifties. She passed from cancer. His kids are still alive, they—stop! Stop thinking about it!

Behind his sympathy, though, is an undercurrent of steel, and I instinctively know he won’t budge on this.

“I’m not asking you to go to intense therapy. Just a little grief counseling. I’m going to have my assistant give you the information for a group that helped me when I was dealing with my wife’s death. I’ll also have her register you and tell the person who runs it to expect you.”

Finally, Larry steps into my office fully, and walks to the chair near the arm of the sofa, sitting and reaching for my hand. Habitually, I pull it away, and he sighs, then sits forward, his elbows on his knees. “Three months. I’m requiring you to attend for three months. If you want to stop after that, it’s up to you. We’re done with this now. Moving on. But if it happens again, I won’t be able to save your job a second time. Do we have a deal?”

I’m torn between my relief at still having my career intact and my desperate desire to avoid anything that will require me to openly acknowledge my past. The little angel on my shoulder wins and I choose the career I have worked so hard for.

“Deal,” I croak. I’ll make it work. I only have to be there; he never said I had to participate. So fine, I’ll listen to a bunch of people’s sob stories and their touchy-feely attempts to “heal.” I’ll do what I always do. I’ll shut the door to myself, lock it, and never let anyone in.

I scan the small room of the Lincoln community center and search for the newbie. The meeting starts in a couple of minutes and she still hasn’t arrived. When Larry Collins emailed me yesterday afternoon about a new member named Victoria Larkin, I added her to the role sheet. His email had been short and to the point, piquing my curiosity about my newest member.

Dr. Monroe,

I spoke with Peter Shaw and he told me you’d taken over our grief group. It’s been years since I last attended, but that group helped me through the roughest of times after losing Gail. Peter assured me that you were more than capable to help my employee. Victoria doesn’t open up well, but I believe she’ll benefit greatly from the fellowship of others suffering from similar stories.

No need to handle her with kid gloves. In fact, if you’ll let her, she’ll gut you. I love her like a daughter. Please don’t let her bark scare you away.

Sincerely,

Larry Collins

I glance down at my roster. All sixteen of us have been a solid group for eight months now—no new members but no losses either. Our Christmas party was epic, but I still cringe whenever I think about catching Bill and Glenda under the mistletoe.

As if clued into my thoughts, Glenda winks over her shoulder at me as she arranges cookies on the tray. I grin back at her but suppress a shudder. A sixty-two-year-old woman making out with a fifty-six-year-old man isn’t something I’d put on my list of favorite things. When Bill sidles up next to her and steals a cookie while simultaneously grabbing her ass, I actually do shudder.

Most everyone has taken their places in the semi-circle around the podium—many people laughing and giggling before the meeting begins. I’m sitting in the first chair near the podium while I wait. I’ve been volunteering as a grief group therapy leader for a year now. It has been tremendously helpful in my own steps of recovery. When I was at my absolute wits’ end, this opportunity became available and I’ve improved ever since.

Tuesdays are hard. And the workers in the paint department at the home store cringe when I walk in. But Saturdays, I live for.

I’m stolen from my thoughts the moment the scent of warm chocolate cookies wafts over to me and my stomach growls. I shove away thoughts of joining Bill in partaking of the snacks because I’ve had Glenda’s cooking before. Not something I want to ever relive. Not that my intestines could handle it anyway.

Another shudder.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The angry clicks of high heels on linoleum thunder through the buzz of voices in the room, alerting me of our newest arrival before she even emerges from the hallway. I check off her name on my list and fold the paper, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans. Lifting my eyes to the doorway, I await the notorious Victoria Larkin.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting.

Maybe a monster with bright red claws.

Perhaps a manlike woman with bulging muscles and a bowl cut.

What I don’t expect is a gorgeous, angry angel.

A blonde, blue-eyed woman, despite it being a casual Saturday afternoon, fills the doorway with her fierce presence and perfectly styled hair. Whereas everyone else, including myself, is wearing jeans and casual shirts, she’s overdressed and out of place in her white silky, long-sleeved shirt that’s tucked into her crisp, black pants. Her lips are blood red, as if she snacked on the ducks that live on the pond behind the community center before arriving and they match her glossy, spiked heels.

Her nostrils flare in resentment as she surveys the room. Disdain paints her features as she makes quick work of eyeing up everyone in the room, clearly judging them before she meets them. I’m sure Bill seems like a dirty old man flirting with sweet Glenda. And Nate, probably appears to be some goofy goon as he guffaws at a joke Claudia tells him.

The way she lifts her nose in the air in a haughty manner has me bristling with irritation. What she doesn’t see is Bill, the man who used to cry at every session over the loss of his wife of twenty-three years, is finally beginning to smile and test the dating waters after three years since her death.

What she doesn’t see is Nate, a single father of three, despite his laughter aches for the loss of his wife Cindy in Afghanistan. He struggles each day to be Mom and Dad to his little girls.

What she doesn’t see is me, a psychology professor who, although I teach about the five stages of grief, most days, I’m fighting depression and self-loathing that threaten to swallow me up.