Should Have Known Better

Kerry and I had a long conversation over lunch. We didn’t talk about Reginald or Sasha. I told her about the library and Sharika going back to school. Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Harris. The teenagers. The twins. Cheyenne’s attitude. How it felt when I learned about R. J.’s autism.

She listened and cheered me on. And while I still felt like I was half dead, she gave me hope without offering it.

She told me a little about her divorce. How her husband had cheated on her, and twice with the same woman. She said she’d slept on a floor, too. Had to be dragged out of bed. But she was OK. And knowing she’d been where I was at made it seem like some kind of change was possible.

She was so together. She wore her victory over her divorce like a piece of armor. I didn’t know if I’d ever get there, but it was nice to be reminded that maybe I could.

“I cut my hair,” Kerry said, digging into the bowl of warm peaches with cobbler crust and vanilla bean ice cream we’d agreed to share for dessert. “That’s when I knew I was ready to move on. I got up and went into the bathroom and just cut it all off.”

“Why?”

“I still don’t really know. I think I was tired. Tired of all of those years of my life I’d wasted trying to be someone’s wife, and someone’s mother, and someone’s daughter—it was all too much.”

“But what did your hair have to do with that?”

“It was just what I thought made me beautiful. What I thought made people like me. It was everything they’d talk about: ‘Kerry’s hair is so long. . . . Kerry’s so dark, but she has that pretty, long hair!’ But when Jamison was gone and I was left sitting in that big house with just myself and my son, I was like, ‘Fuck it! I’m tired of doing this hair!’ So I cut it off and I haven’t let it grow back since. I’ve cut a lot of things.” She spooned the last scoop of ice cream onto my saucer. “What are you going to cut?”

“Cut?”

“Yeah, cut from your life? You can’t get a whole new life unless you let some of the old things go.”

“I don’t know if I need to go cutting things just yet,” I said. “Seems like right now people are busy cutting things for me.” I stopped and let the waiter place our bill on the table and waited until he’d walked away and I was sure he couldn’t hear me. “That woman took him. She came into my house. She took my husband. And every time I think about that, I have to think that maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she didn’t take anything. Maybe I never had it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I want my kids back. I want my house. My mother thinks I need a divorce.”

“And you?”

“I’d be a liar if I said yes,” I said. “I feel yes. Of course. I’m furious. But it’s been a long time. And I keep thinking maybe Reginald’s confused. Maybe he’ll wake up and see Sasha for what she is. Maybe . . .” I stopped. “I’m too embarrassed.”

Kerry insisted that she pay for lunch. She said I needed to be treated—formally.

“How’d you do it?” I asked as we walked out of the restaurant. Kerry had agreed to drive me home, so my mother didn’t have to drive all the way back downtown to get me. “How’d you get through all of that stuff and come out like this?”

Kerry was quiet. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card that was so yellow it was almost neon. She handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s what healed me.”

HHNFH was spelled out in sparkling diamonds that were perfectly placed in the center of the card above a phone number.

“Hell Hath No Fury House,” she said.

I laughed at the name.

“Are you serious? What’s that?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you about it unless you asked,” Kerry answered. “It’s a special treatment and counseling center for women thinking about, going through, and those who have been through divorce. It’s where I went after I cut off all of my hair and people thought I was crazy. They help.”

“Hell Hath No Fury House,” I repeated, still laughing. “You can’t be serious.” I looked at Kerry. “You’re joking. A counseling program for divorcing women? No offense, but I don’t need that. I’m OK. Is this why my mother put you up to meeting me? I told her I don’t want a counselor.”

“She doesn’t know anything about it,” Kerry said.

“Well, I’m sorry. Just meeting with you was cool. I already feel better than I did this morning. Got some air. I’m just not feeling like being around a bunch of angry women all day.” I tried to hand the card back to Kerry, but she stepped back.

“You’re not angry?” Kerry asked flatly.