Free Back In the Game by Holly Chamberlin

terrified.”

Chapter 11
    Jess

    Is the judge a man? How old is he? Is he married or single? Does he have children? Find out the answers to these questions and dress accordingly.
    â€”What to Wear to the Divorce: How to Influence the Judge in Your Favor

    I t was called Women of Divorce. I found it online. The group met on Wednesday mornings at ten o’clock, which was not really convenient for me as I was usually in my office by nine, but I went anyway.
    At the foot of the stairs leading from the sidewalk to the church basement there was a door. On it was posted the name of the group and a wiggly WELCOME. One last chance to run. I opened the door and went inside.
    A ring of folding chairs had been set in one corner of the large, recreation-type space. Three women were already seated. One rose and waved me over.
    â€œWomen of Divorce?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s us!” The woman handed me a blank name tag and a pink marker. I should have known right then that this group was not for me. Pink has never been my color. But I’d promised my friends to give it a try. And I always try to keep my promises. Except when I don’t.
    â€œI’m Patty,” she said, tapping her own name tag. “And this is Marianne and this is Heidi.”
    I smiled tentatively at the other two women and took a seat across from them, a wee bit closer to the door.
    Over the next few minutes the rest of the group gathered. It was a motley crew: a few women seemed to be in their fifties; one woman looked no more than twenty-five. Everyone was nicely dressed; after all, the meeting was taking place in the Back Bay. No underprivileged here.
    I looked down at my five-year-old suit; it had been an expensive purchase for an academic. I wondered what I had in common with these women, other than our sex and being divorced. I thought again of fleeing but before I could take action, Patty introduced me as the newest member of the group. The women nodded or released tight, inquiring smiles.
    â€œJess,” Patty said, “would you like to tell us about yourself?”
    No, I thought. I would not. And then, words, unrehearsed, just came pouring out of my mouth.
    â€œOne day,” I said, “I looked in the mirror; I was brushing my teeth, no big deal; and suddenly, I realized I didn’t know who I was any longer.”
    I looked at Patty. Her smile remained fixed and she gave a slight nod.
    â€œEveryone’s heard that cliché,” I went on. “‘I looked in the mirror and I realized I didn’t know who I was.’ I’ve seen ads for recovery programs that use that phrase or something like it. Well, that morning I learned the scary truth behind that cliché and I started to think about the strange process of alienation. It’s slow and subtle and sneaky and you just aren’t aware of it happening, until one day you look for yourself or for the person you’re supposed to love and you can’t see them without squinting. Instead of right next to you, they’re miles away, little dots on the horizon, and receding ever farther. You shout, ‘Hey, come back!’ but most times they can’t hear you and maybe, used to silence, they aren’t even listening.”
    I felt a flush coming to my cheeks. I sat a bit straighter in the folding chair. I didn’t see the women around me anymore; I saw my face in the bathroom mirror that important morning.
    â€œAnd then,” I said, “I began to wonder if there was a way to recognize this process of alienation early on. I began to wonder if there was a way to stop it. I began to wonder if we’re all doomed to live and die alone, apart even from ourselves.
    â€œRight then, right at that moment, standing at the sink, toothpaste dribbling down my chin, I vowed to start paying attention—to me, to other people, to everything. It might, I realized, be my only hope of—of happiness.”
    As abruptly as the words