Read Online My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) by Rene Gutteridge - Free Book Online

on the road, realizing I was getting close to the address I was looking for. I had folded the piece of paper neatly three times and stuck it between my fingers like a cigarette. I reread the address, the only line showing between the folds.
    I found the building and drove around trying to find a parking spot, questioning my decision not to use the T. Finally I spotted a car leaving. I took its place and got out, dumping quarters into the meter. It only allowed an hour. That would be a good excuse to leave.
    I walked two blocks toward the building, old and tall and imposing with dusty ornate windows and faded brick. It looked to be important once. It reminded me of Dad. I double-checked the address. This was it.
    I opened one of the front doors and stepped through. Elevators waited lifelessly against the back wall. The lobby was clean but didn’t look to impress. I moved to the elevators and pushed the up arrow. One slid open, its doors rattling and revealing its age. Inside, I punched the third-floor button. The elevator didn’t even give me the courtesy of a ding. It just hoisted me up and slid its doors open again. I walked out, surprised to find a large, empty, unfinished area waiting for me. A group of people clustered near the windows, their chairs situated in a small circle. Nobody turned to watch me. I looked around. The floor was cement. Sheetrock stood where walls should be. New wood paneling was unpainted. The ceiling’s electrical, venting, and plumbing showed. Maybe I had the wrong place. I had imagined a more intimate setting, like an office with plush leather and expensive wood desks and elaborate bookcases. And also, far fewer people. Like three . . . me, him, and the therapist.
    I looked at the small crowd, trying to find Edward’s curly golden hair. I glanced back down at the piece of paper in my hand. According to it, I had the right place. I reread the coupon. Conflict Resolution Class. The word class did seem to signify we weren’t going to be alone. That cheap man! Couldn’t he have at least paid for private therapy?
    I was about to turn around and punch the elevator button when the doors whooshed open. I stepped aside, hoping to see Edward’s face emerge. But instead a shorter man with dark hair and intense eyes stepped off. He looked at me, didn’t offer a smile, then looked at the rest of the people standing by the windows.
    â€œIs this the conflict resolution class?” he asked me.
    â€œI think so,” I said with a shrug.
    With a heavy sigh he walked toward the group. The elevator doors clamped shut before I could step back on.
    Where was Edward? How could he be on time for everything in the world except this? I turned back to watch the crowd, squeezing my handbag strap until my knuckles were white. Then one of the women in the group turned my direction. Her gaze startled me, and I felt my face distort into something I intended as a smile but may have been a grimace. With a clipboard held against her chest, she walked toward me, her sandals tapping against the concrete. She extended a hand while still several feet out, which made the situation more awkward. Finally she arrived, her hand still extended. I shook it quickly.
    â€œHi there. I’m Marilyn Hawkins. I’m the instructor.”
    â€œHi.”
    â€œWhat is your name?
    â€œEdward Crowse.” I looked up at her. “I mean, we may be under that name.”
    â€œAre you preregistered?”
    â€œYes.” I resisted the urge to slap my coupon down for the discount. Edward would do that, just to be doubly sure we were getting our bargain.
    She scanned the messy top page of the clipboard, which looked to be filled with names and crossed-out names. Then she lifted that sheet of paper and scanned the next page. Finally she went back to the first page. “I’m sorry, I don’t have that name here.”
    â€œWhat about Leah. Townsend.”
    â€œRight here!” She took