Page 47 of In a Word, Yes

“Okay, sure,” I say.

He stares at me for a beat. “Brilliant. That’s ... brilliant. It’s a date, then!”

Ian clearly regrets his word choice the moment it’s out.Dateisn’t exactly the term I was going for either.

“I mean,” he adds quickly, “that we should settle on a date.”

Riiight.“First things first,” I say. “Better feed your cat.”

***

Billie will be our final reader tonight. She passes a stack of copies to Nytasha, who takes one and passes the stack clockwise to Bernard, who passes to Wyatt, who passes to me. Finally Sunny and then Ian hold copies as well, and the reading begins.

Billie’s memoir promises a behind-the-scenes look at life as a flight attendant—or, rather, astewardess, to suit the 1970s setting—and while we’ve been forewarned to anticipate heart-wrenching tragedy, the story opens with her placid childhood on a hay farm. As she reads, we all follow along on the page. Well, not me so much.

I’m too busy casting glances around the circle, considering each member of this “society” that once again opened its arms to me without hesitation.

Quite in his element, Ian scratches notes on his copy. He really comes alive in this setting. His gentle and encouraging feedback for tonight’s previous readers set the tone for the rest of us to follow in terms of how critique will be done in this group.

Bernard nods along to the cadence of Billie’s words as if appreciating a piece of fine music. Nytasha uncrosses and recrosses her legs. Bounces a foot. Flicks covert looks in Wyatt’s direction.

From what I can tell, he’s altogether oblivious. Following along with Billie’s story, he strokes his chin thoughtfully. With the simple addition of a pair of readers, Wyatt has reverse-morphed—from Superman to Clark Kent, from lawman to bookworm—and I really wish I didn’t find this so agreeable.

Nytasha catches me spying, and we lock eyes for a beat before she returns hers to the page.

Fiddlesticks.

Finally my gaze lands on Sunny’s puckered face. Tonight we are the two holdouts, the only members who have not yet walked the plank. Which is to say, we continue to hold our writing close to our chests. Except that I seem to have earned a pass this time, given the fact that Ian kicked off the meeting by holding up a copy of this week’sMountain Messenger, drawing unanimousoohsandahsover the piece about Wyatt. I’m not sure who was more uncomfortable with the attention, me or him.

Funny ... before tonight I wouldn’t have considered Sunny and me kindred spirits by any measure. But throughout the evening, I’ve noticed another behavior we share in common besides our unwillingness to read for critique. Like me, Sunny seems engaged with the discussion. She nods and takes notes, as do I. I sense that, like me, she has opinions yet withholds feedback.

Is it possible Sunny and I aren’t altogether different? Am I in danger of evolving into a joyless woman, moored to old grievances, wearing private losses across my face for all to see while harboring my story until it turns to sour milk in my veins?

Who sentenced me to spend the rest of my days as a quietobserver, anyway? Mark Twain, with his “better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt”? No. I wasn’t always this way.

Hard as I try to squeeze it away, Devin’s face floats between me and this typed page. His mouth twisted in a patronizing smile. Over time, what began as gentle mocking before we were married evolved into open ridicule. The kind of words that become labels that become stuck to you like flypaper. In this, I take a measure of responsibility. I chose to do what I do best—subvert my feelings to keep the peace.

But when you try to help someone with that kind of soul-sickness, you end up becoming sick yourself. Self-gaslighting is a real thing.

After a while, Lucy Montgomery had been redefined.

My pulse thumps double-time at the base of my throat. Five years later, I no longer buy into those misdefinitions. Still, the whole post-trauma brain-rewiring thing takes practice. It takes time. And yet God is renewing me day by day. I can see it in the rearview mirror.

A broken man’s voice may continue to haunt me now and then, but you can feed me nails and call me Rusty, as my dad would say, if I allow it to wield any power over me. Never again.

Which at the moment means choosing to be completely present in my body. I pet Louie, now outstretched across my thighs and purring contentedly. Billie’s still reading. Deepening my breaths, I tune in.

“...My mother’s recipe box ... harvest-gold appliances...”

I search for matching words on the page but can’t find them. Finally everyone flips to the second page and I follow suit.Aha.Now I can track, truly listening with heart and mind. Investing in the final paragraphs this brave woman crafted.

When Billie finishes, we all offer hums of approval. “Brava!” Bernard says with a graceful clap of his hands. He provides a touch of critique, followed by Ian.

I’m a little in awe of the way Billie managed to draw us into her story so gently. So I tell her. And with this comment comes an inner acceptance.

I’ve chosen to become an active participant in the Sweet Reads Writing Society.

“Thank you for saying so, Lucy,” Billie says, smiling. “It took a long time to make any real headway. Years, truthfully, until I finally broke down and enrolled in a memoir workshop. And you know what? I got the best advice! I didn’t have to start with the most painful part of my story. I didn’t need to go full trauma right from the beginning. I could start gently, build self-trust. I could honor my story without retraumatizing myself.”