“We can all relate to that,” Joey said. There was a murmur of assent.
“Think about it, Fran,” Sarah said. “What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail? Answer fast. One word. Don’t censor yourself.”
“Sing.” Fran looked surprised by her answer. “I used to sing.”
“I belong to a women’s choir,” Mina said. “We sing at local nursing homes and hospitals. We’re always looking for new members.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that I was a good singer.”
Mina chuckled. “We sing to people who wear hearing aids. Really, join us. We have a lot of fun.”
Fran looked uncertain. “I’ll think about it.”
Several women started talking at once. Many of them, it seemed, had reached for unexpected things, too. Flying, sky-diving, marathon running. The consensus was that anything could be a start.
“That’s what we’re all about,” Sarah said. “Finding your passion isn’t just about careers and money. It’s about finding your authentic self. The one you’ve buried beneath other people’s needs. Fran, you might be amazed at how much difference a little thing like joining a choir can make.” She nodded to the woman beside Fran.
The woman moved her fingers nervously, rubbed her hands together. She was tall and thin, dressed all in black; maybe forty years old. She’d bleached her hair the color of straw; her roots were jet black. “I’m Kim. When my shit-head husband left me for a woman with braces, I started drinking. Believe me, it became a passion. I’ve been sober now for three months, but I’m thirsty all the time. I have no idea how to replace booze. My mom heard about this group on television and made me promise to come, so here I am.”
“What do you do in your spare time?” Sarah asked.
Kim tugged on one of her long, silver earrings. “All I have is spare time. He left me plenty of money. I dyed my hair and got a tattoo—it says, ‘Fuck Don.’ Those are positive steps forward, don’t you think?” She wasn’t smiling. In fact, behind all that black eyeliner, her eyes were pools of pain.
“Maybe you could get a job,” someone said. “Earn your own money.”
“Believe me,” Kim snapped, “I earned that money. Besides, what could I do? I left college to get married and raise my daughter, who is now sixteen and thinks I’m dumber than a lug wrench. Volunteer work and husband ego-boosting hasn’t qualified me for a whole hell of a lot. I can’t see getting dressed in DKNY every day and saying, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ ”
“There must be something that interests you.”
Kim sat back. Her fingers played a pianolike rhythm on her black pants. “Nope, nothing. Sorry.” She looked up. “Does revenge count?”
The group fell silent. Sarah said, “Maybe if you just listen tonight, you’ll stop being so afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.” Kim reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims. When she realized what she’d done, she crammed them back into her bag.
Sarah leaned forward. “You’re in a desert right now, dying of thirst, but you’re afraid to reach for water. Just don’t give up, Kim. Sooner or later, you’ll get to a point where it’s more frightening to do nothing than to do something, and then you’ll reach out.”
Kim gave Sarah a look of barely veiled contempt. “Can I find that crocheted on a pillow somewhere? Really. Maybe at a Losers ’R’ Us outlet store?”
Sarah let the silence continue for a moment, then nodded at the woman beside Kim, who immediately started talking. After her, another spoke, then another and another.
Elizabeth realized suddenly that it was her turn.
Everyone looked at her.
Sit here like a rock, huh, Meg? She’d look like an idiot if she passed. She took a deep breath. “I’m Elizabeth. I’m an ordinary housewife with two grown daughters. Stephanie is almost twenty-one; Jamie is nineteen. I haven’t been divorced or widowed or dumped on. Everything that’s wrong with my life is my own fault.”
“Blame isn’t what we’re looking for,” Sarah said. “We’re interested in what you want from life. Your dreams, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth knew that if she didn’t answer, her turn would last forever. “I used to paint.” Surprisingly, it hurt to say the words out loud.
“I work at an art supply store. Picture Perfect on Chadwick,” one of the women said. “Come down this Saturday, and I’ll help you find everything you need.”
Elizabeth had plenty of supplies. Paints and brushes were the least of what an artist needed, and no support network could convince her otherwise. “There’s no point, really.”
“Don’t be afraid,” Sarah said. “Buy the paints and see what happens.”
“You’re lucky,” Joey said, her voice wistful. “You actually have a passion. I’ve been coming to the meetings for months and I still have no clue.”
“I wish I could paint,” added another woman.