Page 29 of A Tinsel Tale

EVIE

Dad and I enter the church basement and there’s a circle of metal chairs with a dozen or so people already there, some seated, some standing around talking. Harsh florescent lighting illuminates the room. There’s a kitchenette behind a long bar where a large stainless-steel urn of coffee sits with Styrofoam cups stacked beside it. Packets of sugar and sugar substitute along with powdered creamer are laid out next to it.

The walls are cinder block, painted white, with the lower half wood-paneled wainscoting. I’m sure the spotted linoleum dates back to the sixties. There are bulletin boards with posters of events pinned up and positive messages taped to the walls. I see a notice of weekly AA meetings next to a printout of The Twelve Steps of AA.

After helping myself, I juggle my store-bought cookie wrapped in a napkin with the Styrofoam cup full of hot coffee as we find our seats. A very attractive fifty-something woman, with dark eyes and blonde hair streaked with a touch of silver, motions Dad over. Her face is open and friendly, her smile bright.

“I saved you a seat, Bill. This must be Evie,” she says.

Dad beams with pride as he introduces me. “Thisis my Evie. Evie, I’d like you to meet a special friend of mine, Gwen.”

I take her outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Gwen,” I say.

“I feel like I know you,” she replies. I peer at her curiously over my cup as I take a sip of the terrible brew. The group leader, a kind looking man in his sixties, rings a bell and everyone takes a seat.

“Good evening, and welcome,” he says, smiling at each of us as his eyes circle the group. “Good to see old faces and a few new ones. I’m Charlie, the pastor of this church, but you don’t have to go to church to be here. Everyone is welcome. For those newbies, we’re an informal grief support group that meets once a week. No rules except be kind to one another and judgement has no place here. Sharing is optional. Most of all, you’re not alone. We will all lose someone we love at some point. None of us get out of here alive.” I like him. He’s relatable, exuding warmth and empathy.

“We’re continuing our theme from last week, getting through the holidays. It’s hard to wade through all the difficult reminders that our loved ones are no longer with us. The first couple of years suck, everything feels different. It’s painful. Pushing it away and pretending everything is normal can work for a while, sometimes it’s the best we can do, but eventually it comes out one way or another,” he says. “I thought we could talk about how we’re all coping and if any of those suggestions we talked about last week are helping. But first let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves and share anything you like… or not,” he says, grinning.

I groan inwardly. I hate this so much. Everyone introduces themselves and when it gets to me, I say, “I’m Evie. I’m just here to support my dad.” I cross my arms protectively. Idon’t need a support group.

The woman next to Charlie, Judy, I think her name is, says, “Hi, everyone.” Her voice quivers and she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “As most of you know, this is my first Christmas without my husband, Steve. He died last January. It’s been really rough. He loved Christmas. I miss him so much.”

I squirm in my seat. Geesh, I’m already holding back tears. I have an irrational urge to run out of the room. Why did I ever agree to come here? I’ve been doing so well. I definitely don’t need this.

“I am so grateful to this group,” she continues. “After our meeting last week, my daughter and I took the grandkids to the Christmas tree lighting downtown, then came home and told stories. The kids seemed to brighten before our eyes. They shared their funny memories of Grandpa and we laughed and cried. The oldest boy said he’d been afraid to talk about Grandpa because he didn’t want to make his mom or me cry. That really hit me. I don’t want them to forget him. I realized we’d been avoiding mentioning him, as if that could magically make the loss less painful. Honestly it was making things worse. Nobody loved Christmas more than he did.”

Okay. Now I’m bawling and sniffling into the tissue Dad just handed me. I blow my nose as discreetly as possible and fight down panic. I don’t want to be doing this. I’m suddenly overcome with grief, and I can’t breathe. My dad puts his arm across my shoulders and tugs me against his side. He pats me comfortingly. I hear others sniffling and I look up, glancing around the circle, I see that quite a few people besides me are teared up. Nobody is staring at me.So maybe I’m not overreacting. It’s not just me. Also, everyone looks open and accepting. Some are nodding in understanding but every single person in the circle is relating to Judy’s story.

Dad clears his throat. “I brought my daughter Evie with me tonight. Evie came home to help me with my knee surgery. Like you Judy, I wasn’t sure whether to talk about Ginny. I was afraid it’d be too painful for my daughter. I wanted to protect her. I know she’s found it hard to come home since we lost Ginny. I didn’t want to make it harder for her. But I took the things said at the last meeting to heart and I opened up. I don’t want to bury my feelings or the great memories we have. It wasn’t working anyway.” The group chuckles.

“So, me and my beautiful daughter are making new traditions and carrying on with some old ones. Today we went and bought ourselves a tree from the Barringtons’ tree farm.” Dad tears up and holds his hand pausing for a beat, then continues. “That’s one of the old traditions we’re going to keep. It was really nice. Wasn’t it Evie?”

“The best,” I agree. The meeting continues with more stories, more tears. I had no intention of sharing but to my surprise I raise my hand.

“Um,” I stammer, “I didn’t expect to talk but in the face of so much courage I have to. I am in awe of everyone here. I’ve been so terrified to face my grief, to feel it, that I’ve been running as fast as I can to escape. For someone who is supposedly bright,” I flash a watery smile, “not so much. I thought I could numb my way through it, anesthetize myself with exhaustion, bargain with fate and go around it. Anything but through it.”

I pause and collect myself. “I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve avoided coming home, leaving my dad all alone, instead of supporting him and facing it together.” I choke back a sob. “I left right after the funeral. I didn’t even stay with Dad that night. Somehow, I’d convinced myself I was coping. Doing just fine folks, thanks for asking. Guess what? Surprise!” I say sarcastically. “I was lying to myself.”

“But… coming home this time has been different… healing. Dad and I have talked about Mom. I’ve even talkedtoMom. I swear she heard me. I’m not sure I could have done it any differently before, really, because I truly think I might have died, but I don’t need to run anymore. I have a whole lot of forgiveness to ask for from my dad and myself too, for being so selfish. I’m touched by all of you who have shared tonight and laid yourselves bare. It’s such a generous gift. Thank you.”

Charlie says, “Thank you, Evie. You’re not alone. A lot of people cope by escaping. Trust me, it’s not uncommon. In the beginning that was the best you could do. Some losses are just too big. Too overwhelming. You can’t blame yourself for needing time. We all grieve in our own way. I hope you take this in, you did nothing wrong and I’m glad you’re here now.”

I put my hand over my heart and nod my thanks. “Can I say one more thing? Tomorrow is Dad’s knee surgery, and I’m a nervous wreck. Any thoughts and prayers would be so appreciated.”

On our way home Dad reaches over and takes my hand. “I’m really proud of you, Evie. It took a lot of courage to share with a group of strangers like that. We’re going to be okay.”

I feel like I’m about seven when I say, “I’m not gonna lie, I’m worried about tomorrow. I’m having PTSD. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”

“I’m going to be just fine. Hear me?” he says sternly.

“Promise?”

“I’m not the least bit worried and neither should you be. We’ll get through this together. Now pull out your phone and put Jamie and Gwen’s numbers in. I promised them you’d call when I was out of surgery.”

I don’t know why, but that comforts me. It feels like I’m not alone. I enter them into my contacts and pocket my phone. I feel a sudden calm come over me thinking of Jamie. I remember way back, when his confidence and steadiness had always made me feel safe. But… I’m not going to think about that right now.

16

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