Walter didn't tell her where they were going. To be fair, Florence didn't ask.
She'd seen Sylvester and him talking the previous day, and the talk had ended with the two men hugging. That had to mean that whatever Sylvester's idea was, it was O'Brien Approved.
Earlier this morning, he'd approached her. "Sylvester had a suggestion on something that might help you," he said. "You know…t – talk about stuff. Would you like to go for a drive with me?"
No. But she knew she had to. If there was any chance of escaping this fog, she had to take it. And today was a 'good day' in that she didn't feel like each of her limbs weight three hundred pounds. Walking felt like a chore, but not impossible. Her eyes hurt, but the lids weren't heavy. She was more able today than she often was. "Okay."
Walter smiled. "I promise you won't be overwhelmed."
"Okay."
They got in his car. Sylvester was in the loft with Toby and the kids, and she wondered if she should have told him where she was going. She decided it didn't matter. He had to know Walter would be approaching her about…whatever this was.
They parallel parked near a park and walked down one of the paved paths. There were some couples walking, a jogger with bright blue headphones passing by the water fountain, and a woman on a bench. A teenager walked their dog over to a map and studied it.
The woman on the bench looked up from her phone, making eye contact with them. She smiled and rose. This, Florence thought, must be who Walter had brought her to see. She watched as the smiling woman approached them. "Hi, Walter," the woman said, reaching out.
Walter reciprocated, the two engaging in a side hug. "Hello," he said. "I appreciate you seeing us."
"Of course. You must be Florence?"
"Uh. Yeah," Florence said, feeing uneasy. "I'm sorry, I don't know exactly what this is about."
"Oh! Sorry." She glanced at Walter. "Can you give us a few?"
"Sure," he said. "I'll wait in the car."
When Walter was gone, the woman smiled at Florence. "Sit?"
They walked back to the bench. When settled, the woman crossed her left leg over her right and rested her hands on her knee. "Alright. Has Walter told you anything about me?"
"He said you were a friend of his. That's all."
"And I haven't even introduced myself." She tucked hair behind her ear. "Wow. Fail." She cleared her throat. "Well, I'm Linda, I briefly dated Walter years ago."
"You're the speed dating woman!" Florence said, putting two and two together.
"Correct," Linda said, looking a bit delighted at the identification.
Florence couldn't smile back. Why was Walter having her meet with a speed dating coordinator? Why had Sylvester suggested it? Did he not want to get back together? Or…was he assuming she didn't?
"Now I don't know if you know the rest of it," Linda continued, "but after my first date with Walter, some people knocked me out and strapped a bomb to me."
Florence nodded. She had heard the basics.
"Walter and the team saved my life – it was this crazy thing – and that trauma made me think I had feelings for Walter beyond what I did. Eventually we determined that I was just seeking the high that being saved gave me, but years later I realized that that wasn't entirely it. I was also seeking Walter out because I was a lot more traumatized than I thought I was and dating him was a way of pushing that down. Once I got away from Scorpion…Walter and I had said we would stay friends. But you know how that goes. You have a crush on someone, it fades, you don't see them again."
Not really, Florence thought. Of the two people she'd ever had crushes on, she had married one of them, and the other was waiting in the car.
"But we did run into each other time and again, and so he knows that eventually I had a complete mental break and was hospitalized. Therapy made me worse. I didn't want to talk to professionals. And I figured out that the best way for me to cope was to just talk. Share my experiences with other people, and be a listening ear for them, too. So I started my support group. It's called Be Our Own, and basically people show up to have other people to talk to. All of us have been through something. And for a lot of us, counselling and therapy just don't help. And groups like mine don't help everyone either, but I think it's worth a try, if you want objective third parties with no personal stake in your struggle to listen to you and provide advice if you ask for it. We're all very much about respecting boundaries. Being comfortable is the object."
"That doesn't sound terrible…" Florence bit her lip. "Look, I don't know how much you know about me, either."
"Walter said that he had a friend who might need some people to talk to," Linda said. "Oh, and I know you're married to Sylvester and you two have a daughter. That's it. He was very vague."
"Okay." So she would have full control over what she said. "When are your meetings?"
"We have them at the library off State Street on Thursday nights; they're open an hour after closing just for us. So, obviously you know it's Thursday. You're more than welcome to come tonight, or next week, or never. Up to you."
Florence nodded again. "I might give it a try. I have to try something, right?"
Linda smiled. "We've been advertising the group in a couple mental health magazines, so if you came tonight or next week, you shouldn't be the only newbie."
The library chairs were situated in a circle, away from the largest windows. For privacy, Florence supposed. Linda, holding a clipboard with papers semi – organized on it, sat at what Florence assumed was the head of the circle. Could there be a head of a circle? About three quarters of the chairs were full, and for a moment, Florence debated leaving. Too soon, too much. She could slip out, duck around the shelves and past the desk and out the front door. Linda would assume she'd decided to come in the following week. And then she could decide again.
But her feet kept moving in a forwardly direction. She selected a seat a few spot to Linda's right.
"Is this seat taken?" Asked another woman, gesturing to the spot to Florence's left.
"No. I mean…no, I don't think so," she said.
The woman sat down. "Works for me."
Florence stared at her knees. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be able to see her knees. She should be over seven months pregnant.
Everyone seemed to be settled, and Linda smiled and rose. "Hello, everyone!"
About half of the group said hello back; the rest simply snapping to attention. One or two women added Linda's name to their greeting.
"Okay," Linda said with a smile. "First of all, I'd like to welcome you all to Be Our Own. As this is the first week after some new advertising, and we have a good mixture of regulars and new people here, let's all go around and share why we're here. As always, only give as much detail as you're comfortable with. We are here to help one another by sharing and listening and not applying pressure to anyone. This is introductions; we can get into more detail later on in the meeting. Okay?"
There were nods around the group. Florence shifted, her stomach in knots.
"Okay." Linda smiled. "I'll start, as usual. My name is Linda Price, and about nine years ago now, I was knocked out and fitted with a bomb vest. The vest ultimately went off with me still wearing it."
One woman put her hand over her mouth. She, Florence presumed, must be another new person.
"As you can imagine that caused some mental trauma, a lot of which I didn't confront and deal with until years later. And that led to me starting Be Our Own. I've found talking to other people who have been through something has helped me tremendously, and our goal is to help as many others as we can, while seeking what we need ourselves." Linda put her hands together, turning to the woman to her left. "Would you like to go next, Morgan?"
"Yes, sure." She placed her hands on her knees. "I am Morgan LeComte. In 2022, I was kidnapped by my father's bookie and held for ransom for four days."
"My God," whispered the woman next to Florence.
Morgan looked to her left. That woman gave her a small smile and then faced the circle. "My name is Cathryn Sophia. My parents were murdered in their RV in British Columbia eight months ago. They have no leads on who did it."
Quiet "I'm so sorrys," echoed around the circle.
"Thanks," she said. "It's…yeah." She looked to her left.
"I'm Naia Hashem," said the next woman. "I am here because in 2016, I was beaten on my university campus."
Florence listened to every story. One woman was shot in the line of duty. One had a serious seizure while her service dog was distracted by a woman who thought her right to pet a cute dog was more than the owner's right to her health. Another lost her brother in a car accident that she herself survived. Florence felt her stomach twisting into knots. I don't think I can do this.
The woman next to Florence straightened up for her introduction. "My name is Hope Dougal. I recently left my husband." She paused. "There's more to it than that, but I'd rather wait a little bit."
There were understanding nods. And then it was Florence's turn. She shifted her weight again, staring at the ground, feeling put on the spot even though she'd known it was coming.
She still had time to chicken out. She could get up, apologize, and rush out. She could just leave, no hurried words included. She didn't owe these people an explanation. Or she could say she wasn't ready to share anything yet but her name.
"Hi," she said, her voice sounding odd. She paused, drawing in a breath, her tongue feeling dry and her stomach doing flips, flips she should be attributing to Tilly, and not anxiety over speaking. She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be pregnant, delighting in kicks and somersaults.
But she wasn't. She wasn't pregnant. She couldn't write off her gastrointestinal issues as Tilly kicking and stretching and hiccuping. As badly as she wanted her situation to be different, it wasn't. No amount of wanting could change the lot she'd been dealt. But she could change some of how she felt. Or at least, she could try.
"My name is Florence Tipton – Dodd," she said, her voice sounding stronger, "and I have post-partum depression."
