The Ladies Room

Published in The Narrative Arc

THE WHOLE TOWN KNEW

The Ladies Room

I had no escape from the cruel gossip

With the scent of hairspray in the air, the silence contrasting with the music, the noise of too many people in one place, I wasn't in any hurry to get back to my table. I felt euphoric, not from the half glass of wine, but from being out, like this, at a restaurant and bar, with girlfriends.

I’d left a dozen detailed notes for the babysitter. Earlier I’d felt anxious about going to a restaurant alone. But not anymore! I try the ‘act as if’ technique.

“Be bold,” I say to no one. I sling my purse over my shoulder, open the latch with a satisfying slide, start to open the stall door when two women walk into the restroom, talking, and loud spiked up voices.

“She's out there, at the corner table. Did you see her?" an unknown woman asks.

I stand there frozen.

"Yeah, I saw her. I'm pretty sure that's her women's support group because Anne's there, too, and I know she's in that same group. They can't talk about anything. It's all confidential," answered the other woman.

"She looks good, don't you think? I mean considering the whole thing."

"She does, but she's smiling too hard, you know? Kind of forced or something."

"Well, I give her credit for even coming out to Happy Hour here. It's gutsy. I’d want to stay home for a year if that happened with Kevin and I."

The bad grammar grates on me. Who are they?

They can't see my stall from the mirror. I step back, pull the door closed, grateful there's a lid so I can sit down.

"I'm not sure I'd stay hidden away. I mean he was the jerk, not her."

Faucets run, and I can't hear anything.

The door swings open, as someone enters, heels click on the tile, cigarette smoke wafts in. Music drowns out their voices, a Phil Collins song drifts: “So take a look at me now, oh, there's just an empty space. And there's nothing left to remind me…"

How fitting. I'll bet Phil Collins is whiny and I despise his cheesy lyrics. What a dumb-ass title Against All Odds. A hush of quiet. I hear one of them digging around in a purse and every word between them.

"OK, I know, but here's the thing: how could she not know? Either she's dense or she knew."

I think, yeah, she’s is right.

Dense, stupid, and blind. Here I am, sitting, no slumping, on the toilet seat. She should've added “pathetic” too.

"It's mind-boggling, isn't it? I mean I'm sure I'd have seen the signs."

I want to yell back. Oh, would you? Are you positive? You sanctimonious cow!

"Me too, if my husband had been cheating on me. Trust me, I'd have known. They were married for 10 years or something. And don't they have two girls? Hand me your lip gloss."

"Three! Her little girl is in Lindsey's preschool. And the youngest is a boy: a toddler. They go to the same church as our preschool. We went a few times; Mark grew up Episcopalian."

A preschool mother: I must know her. I think of the pick up line, the parking lot. I don’t recognize either voice.

"So, here's what I want to know. Is it true they all met at that progressive church dinner? That's what I heard. Do you know?"

Now I am on my feet, the side of my face pressed against the cool metal door. Their voices, a low conspiring tone, I strain to hear.

"I have no idea, but that sounds too progressive for me," she laughs.

Then they both burst out in high-pitched giggles. I cringe. Shame envelops me; I squeeze my eyes shut, I feel damp under my arms. Then a black, red rage quenches the shame. I want to throw something, to push them hard against the sinks, to smash their heads into the mirror.

"You have lipstick on your teeth."

“Am I good now?"

"Yup. Should I cancel my perm next week? I wanted it, and now I’m not sure."

I picture her fluffing her hair.

"Turn around, let me see. I say if it'll be easier, get the perm. Your hair looks good either way. Hey, you knew they were best friends, didn't you?”

"No! I didn't hear that.

I knew the husbands were. You mean they were too? Susan was her friend? Good God! With friends like that…" She trails off with that worn out idiom.

"Yeah, that's why it's so awful. Two betrayals, a double whammy! And get this: they were roommates on that marriage retreat through the church. They had separate women and men’s dorms."

My ear hurts against the stall door. I hear a compact snap shut, a purse zipped up.

"No! Are you kidding me? How do you know?"

"Someone who went on the marriage retreat told me."

"Well, a lot of good that did."

I grip my purse strap hard. I fight the urge to come slamming out of the stall.

"Hey, come on, Deb, that's mean. Plus, her mom is dying, or died of cancer while all this was going on."

"That's so sad. Well, I heard, but I have no idea whether it's true…"

"What? What? Come on, hurry. We gotta get back before Happy Hour is over. Tell me."

"OK. I heard he was bi.”

"I doubt that's true. It can't be. He made passes at me."

"You never told me that! She's just lucky she didn't get AIDS or something."

I wince. My breathing is shallow, tight. I've got to get out of here or Anne will come looking for me any minute.

Tina Turner's voice belts out What's Love Got to Do with It as the door opens. They are gone. I didn't feel myself crying, but my cheeks are wet. I blot my eyes with toilet paper. It'll still look like I cried.

I want a window to crawl through, to escape, like in the movies. The only way out is through that door. I sit immobilized. What am I doing here, hiding in the bathroom and how can I come out? Ever. But it's more. How did I get to this place in my life? I dismiss those questions.

It's too late. Three children need me; I see their faces and tiny teeth. I am strengthened by that single image. I will do it. I'll walk out with my pointy chin up. And I'll smile as mom taught me ‘when I least feel like it.’ She said the physical act worked; it tricked the brain into feeling confident. I miss my mother.

If I spot their table, the ladies room women, I will disarm them with my smile. I push through the door.

The perfect lyrics embolden me. Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken. I've been takin’ on a new direction… ooh, ooh.

Thank you, Tina.