Thursdays At Eight

by Debbie Macomber

  After Steve died, my friends advised me to delay any major decisions for twelve months. That’s good advice to remember now. What I’m experiencing is a second loss. The loss of my children. I’m the only Kenyon left in Willow Grove.

  I’m not entirely alone, however. My friends are here—those I’ve known all my married life, although it seems we’ve drifted apart since Steve died. My new friends live here, too—the women I met in the journal-writing class. I’m grateful to Sandy O’Dell for recommending I enroll. It was exactly what I needed, and I’ve learned a lot about myself through the process of writing down my thoughts every day. I wish now that I’d kept a diary when I was younger. Perhaps then I’d have found it easier to understand and express my own feelings.

  Our teacher, Suzanne Morrissey, was an English professor assigned to the class at the last minute. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any idea where to start, although she gave it a good try. Mostly, she had us read and critique literary journals, which was interesting but not all that useful. Still, I suppose keeping a journal isn’t really something that can be taught. It’s something you do.

  What came out as I wrote in my journal was this deep sense of loss and abandonment I’ve felt since Steve’s death. I’d assumed that after six years I’d dealt with all that, but coupled with Amy and Jack’s move to the mid-West, followed by Brian’s moving out…well, it’s too much.

  Amazing, isn’t it, that I can cope with one crisis after another in my job at the hospital yet feel so defeated by the events in my own life?

  Clare and I have been spending quite a bit of time together. That’s probably natural, her being recently divorced and me a widow. Clare’s situation is similar to mine a few years back when I realized, to my dismay, that my friends came in couples. Most of them are matched sets. Like me, Clare has come to recognize that she lost not only her husband but the framework of her social world, which crumbled right along with the marriage. Although her circumstances are different from mine, the outcome has been the same. The dinners, card-playing, even something as uncomplicated as a night at the movies—it all seems to be done in pairs.

  Within a few months of Steve’s death, I found myself drifting away from the very people I’d once considered our dearest friends. We have so little in common anymore that I couldn’t see the point.

  It was awkward, too. People didn’t know what to say after the accident. In fact, I didn’t want anyone to say anything. What I needed was someone to listen. Few of my friends understood that.

  Clare’s had a hard time adjusting to the divorce. Losing the people she once considered her friends is a bitter pill after everything she’s been through with Michael. Maybe she should have taken it up with the attorney: custody of the friends. Who gets to stay friends with whom?

  Really, it’s odd that Clare and I should have bonded at all. We’re very different kinds of people; in our previous lives, we probably wouldn’t have felt the slightest interest in knowing each other. Right now, Clare’s angry and bitter and struggling not to be. I still have my share of anger, too, yet I’m more accepting of the events that led me to this point (but then, my husband didn’t leave me for another woman). I enjoy Julia and Karen, too, but it’s Clare I identify with most. Perhaps it’s the loneliness. That’s something we both understand. Something people can’t truly appreciate until they’ve experienced it themselves.

  Time. This should be the best time of my life. I have a fabulous career. When I started out at Willow Grove Memorial, I never dreamed that one day I’d end up as the hospital administrator. My children have grown into responsible adults. I had a wonderful marriage and I’ve got lots of memories to sustain me. Yes, this should be a good time, and it will be—once I learn how to live contentedly by myself.

  Liz stared at the phone on her desk, dreading its ring. Her Monday had begun badly, and already she could see that this first week of the new year was going to be a repeat of December, with many of the same problems she’d faced then. The hospital was no closer to a new contract with the nurses’ union, and the state health inspectors were scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. In addition, she’d had several hot flashes and been downing Chai tea with soy milk all morning. This was not a good start to the year, she thought gloomily.

  She got up and removed her jacket, placing it on a hanger. Then she unfastened the top button of her white silk blouse and rolled the long sleeves past her elbows. Picking up a piece of paper from the desk, she fanned her flushed face and paused to look out the sixth-floor window to the parking lot below.

  “I can see I’ve cornered you at a good moment.” It was a deep male voice, one Liz immediately identified.

  “Dr. Jamison,” she said in a crisp, professional tone. He was rarely at Willow Grove Memorial. Most of his patients were admitted to Laurelhurst Children’s Hospital, where he worked primarily with premature infants. Sean Jamison was an excellent pediatrician but he had a well-deserved reputation for being demanding, impatient and arrogant—an arrogance that found expression in his womanizing behaviour. Liz couldn’t fault his medical skills, but when it came to dealing with staff, he could use a few lessons in emotional maturity.

  “Come now,” he said, his voice seductive, “we know each other well enough for you to call me Sean.”

  Liz stepped behind her desk and resumed her seat, motioning for him to sit down, too. “How can I help you?”

  “This is more of a social visit.” He claimed the closest chair and struck a casual pose, crossing his legs and balancing one ankle on the opposite knee. He relaxed, leaning back as if he was settling in for a long visit. “I stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m busy,” she said quickly, thinking he might have time for chitchat but she didn’t.

  He ignored her lack of welcome. “How was your New Year’s Eve?”

  So that was it. He’d asked her out—well, sort of. What he’d done was propose that they get together, the invitation flavored with sexual innuendo, and she’d promptly refused. Although she’d been a widow for six years, Liz rarely dated. Opportunities were available, had she been interested. For the most part, she wasn’t.

  “I had a lovely night. What about you?” From Sean’s reaction she’d realized it wasn’t often a woman turned him down. Liz had certainly heard all the rumors about Dr. Jamison. He was tall, sandy-haired and craggy-faced, with an undeniable presence; comparisons to Harrison Ford were regularly made—by women from twenty to sixty. Sean possessed the ageless appeal of a man who was smart, handsome, wealthy and single. The hospital was full of gossip about him, and more than one of the female nurses had fallen under his spell. Divorced for ten years, Sean Jamison seemed to consider himself a prize to be caught. He never dated anyone for long and Liz disliked his arrogant approach in romance as much as she deplored his indifference to staff relations.

  Liz and Steve had met in high school, and other than the normal ups and downs that were part of any longstanding relationship, they’d had a good, solid marriage. She wasn’t interested in a fling, no matter how handsome or wealthy the man.

  Sean’s attention confused her, although she’d never allow him to see that. From what she understood, he generally went out with women several years younger than he was. While Liz kept fit and watched her diet, she wasn’t a trim thirty-year-old. With loving humor, Steve had suggested that her hourglass figure had begun to show an hour and ten minutes. She still smiled whenever she thought of that.

  “Stayed home New Year’s, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, and crossed her arms, letting him know she wasn’t open to a discussion involving her private life, “but as I said, I had a perfectly lovely evening.”

  “All alone?”

  “I happen to enjoy my own company.” Standing, she braced both hands on the edge of her cherrywood desk. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

  “I’m willing to give you another chance to go out with me.”

  “No, than
ks.”

  He grinned, dismissing her rejection as though it was her loss, not his. Then he stood and turned away, ambling toward the door.

  “Sean,” she said, shocking herself just a little.

  His smile firmly in place, he raised his eyebrows. “Change your mind?”

  “As a matter of fact, no,” she said, knowing that for some reason she didn’t want this conversation to end the same way the others had.

  “No?” He arched his eyebrows again, affecting a look of mild surprise.

  “This is the second time you’ve stopped by my office to ask me out.”

  He didn’t comment.

  “I’ve turned you down both times,” she reminded him. “And I’m wondering if you’ve asked yourself why.”

  “It’s self-explanatory,” he murmured. “You’re afraid.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  He shrugged carelessly, and she could practically read his response. No big deal. Plenty of women willing to take him up on his offer.

  “It’s your attitude.”

  For the first time in their lengthy association, Sean appeared to be at a loss for words.

  “I’m not some bimbo you can schmooze into bed. This might come as news to you, but there’s more to a relationship than what happens between a man and a woman in the bedroom.”

  He stared at her, as if daring her to continue. “I happen to think you’re one of the finest pediatricians in this state,” she went on. “I respect your diagnostic and medical skills, and I’ve seen the way you are with the children. My regard for your professional abilities is immense. But your manner with most people in this hospital leaves a lot to be desired, and frankly I’m not impressed.”

  “Is this the long version of why you’re not interested in dating me?” he asked with barely disguised disdain.

  “Actually…I’d like to get to know you.”

  His look implied that he wasn’t sure he should believe her. “You have an odd way of saying so.”

  Despite his apparent indifference, she knew this couldn’t be easy on his ego. “I suspect there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

  “Great. Your place or mine?”

  Liz wanted to groan out loud. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said! “Neither.” She held the door for him and added soberly, “When you’re ready to see me as an intelligent, mature woman whose professional interests are compatible with yours, let me know.” She leaned against the open door. “Otherwise you’re wasting your time.”

  “I doubt that,” he said as he stepped past and paused to touch his lips to her cheek. “Give me a call when you’re ready for some excitement in your life.”

  Liz rolled her eyes. Forget it, Doctor. I have enough excitement just dealing with all the staff complaints against you.

  Some people never learned.

  “The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely.”

  —Lorraine Hansberry

  Chapter 3

  KAREN CURTIS

  January 1st

  I woke at noon, nursed a tall, half-caff/decaf, double-sweet mocha latte for breakfast. Nichole phoned and wanted to hang out at the mall so we did. I ran into Jeff, who’s working at Body and Spirit Gym, and we talked for a while. He’s wasting his life teaching Tae-Bo classes to a bunch of over-weight business executives who don’t care about anything beyond their corporate image. I found it really hard to hold my tongue. Jeff is letting his talent go down the drain and it upsets me.

  Jeff and I made a vow to one another in high-school drama class that we wouldn’t give up the dream. It was all I could do not to grab him by the shoulders and remind him. It’s too soon to throw away the future, I wanted to tell him. Although I kept my mouth shut, I could see that Jeff was eager to make his escape. Hanging with me made him uncomfortable; it forced him to face what he’s doing.

  What bothers me most is knowing Jeff isn’t the only one who’s given up; Angie and Burt did, too. Last I heard, Sydney and Leslee had regular nine-to-five jobs. So did Brad. Out of the seven of us who made up the acting ensemble, there’s only me left. I refuse to surrender to the mundane. I refuse to take second-best. I am an actor. Currently a starving one, but that’s beside the point.

  All right, I’ll step down from my soapbox. God forbid, my biggest fear is about to become a reality. I’m beginning to sound like my mother, the Woman Who Always Knows Best. Now there’s a thought to send me screaming into the night.

  She and Dad insisted I get a college education. I disagreed, stood my ground, fought the good fight, but then—during a period of below-poverty-level existence—I caved. Hey! They might’ve won the battle, but the war’s all mine. Since the day I was born, my domineering mother has attempted to run my life. From the moment I enrolled in college, she’s demanded I be a teacher. A lifelong occupation, she said. A good job for a woman. Give me a break!

  Well, I have that precious degree, but it’s in history with a minor in education. I have no intention of using it, except where it’ll aid my acting career. Fortunately I’ve found a way in which to do that. Oddly enough, it also means my mother’s kind of getting what she wants. But that’s just a by-product. The important thing is I’m getting what I want.

  You see, I’m a substitute teacher. Temporary and part-time. Due to the severe teacher shortage currently happening in southern California, anyone with a college degree—and it doesn’t matter in what—can be hired as a substitute teacher. Isn’t that incredible? I can have a degree in basket-weaving and qualify as a teacher for a whopping two-hundred-and-fifty bucks a day. Now, I don’t mind telling you that’s good money for part-time work. What’s so fantastic is this: I can pick and choose the days I want to teach.

  If I can fit subbing into my schedule, I spend two or three days a week in a classroom. Three at the most. That way, I still make enough money to support myself. On the days I don’t work, I can audition for whatever’s available.

  Before the holiday break, my agent sent me out to audition for a TV commercial for a new kind of toilet brush. The district called first thing that morning and without fear of losing my job and without so much as a twinge of guilt, I said I had other plans. No problem; they simply went to the next name on the list. I headed out the door, knowing there’ll be a job for me another day, if I want it. Sadly, I didn’t get the commercial, but rejection’s the name of the acting game.

  As soon as school starts up after the holidays, I’ll be ready to go back to substitute teaching. With so many days off, I have to admit I’m experiencing a bit of a cash-flow problem. Christmas didn’t help, and neither did the cost of the one-day acting workshop last week. In fact, Jeff bought my latte for me today. But never mind, I’ll survive. I always do, despite my mother’s dire predictions.

  I know I’m an embarrassment to her. She can’t brag about me to all her society friends the way she does Victoria. My sister had the good judgment to marry an up-and-coming attorney who raised our family’s social standing an entire notch. As far as I’m concerned, Roger is a twit, but no one’s asking for my opinion. Good thing, too, because I’m not afraid to give it.

  One positive aspect of Victoria’s brilliant marriage is that Mom and Dad’s attention is now focused on my sister and her first child instead of on me (although I do have to admit my nephew’s a real cutie!). Basically Mom’s been leaving me alone. Thank God.

  I once heard a psychology professor say that the females in his class should take a good look at their mothers because in all likelihood we’ll be just like them as we mature. Heaven help me—say it ain’t so!

  Mother means well. I can’t fault her there. It’s just that I’m such a bitter disappointment to her. Mom’s so…so sterile. So predictable. There’s no passion in her soul. I’m nothing like her, so I don’t know how Professor Gordon could categorically state that in a few years I’ll resemble her.

  If anyone’s like Mom, it’s Victoria. To her, what people think and say
is of ultimate importance. Social standing. Appearances. Money. None of that interests me. Well, maybe the money part, but only enough to get by. Unless I earn it doing what I love, and that’s acting. I guess I’m a woman who needs an audience. As a kid, my first word wasn’t Mom or Dad but look.

  When Mom heard I’d tried out for a role in a toilet-brush commercial, she freaked. The very thought of her daughter appearing on national television and admitting she cleaned toilets would have mortified her. However, I was thrilled with the part and devastated when I learned it’d gone to someone else. But that’s all part of the business… And as Dad keeps saying, I’ve got a university degree to “fall back on.”

  Liz, Clare and Julia are three surprises that came out of me finishing my credits to get my degree. I love these guys and I’m thrilled we’ve decided to keep meeting, just the four of us. Me and three smart, professional women. I don’t know what exactly I offer the group. My guess is comic relief.

  The only reason I took that journal-writing class was because I needed an easy credit, and from the course description this was a simple way to raise my GPA. From the time I was a kid, I’ve kept a journal. There must be twenty spiral-bound notebooks tucked away in my bedroom closet, and they document my entire life. I signed up for the class, convinced I’d be bored out of my mind, and became friends with three of the most fascinating women I’ve ever met.

  The English professor who taught the class was a real ditz. I knew more about keeping a journal than she did. But I didn’t miss a single session, and that’s only because of Liz and the others. They’ve kind of adopted me and I’m grateful. What I like is the perspective they give me, being older and all. Liz is the sort of person I wish my mother could be. Hey, if my mother wants to change me, then I should be granted the same privilege. If I’m a disappointment to her as a daughter, then she should know she’s not my picture of the ideal parent, either.