Page 16 of Matchmaking for Psychopaths

The shades were pulled down over the meeting room’s windows, which meant that I was unable to see inside before entering.

Was Rebecca in there? I took a breath and opened the door.

Everyone inside turned to look at me. Eight women and two men sat in a circle of chairs.

I guessed that the gender imbalance wasn’t because women were more likely to have murdered parents, but rather because they were more likely to seek therapy in the aftermath.

I’d seen the same thing at Better Love. Women were much more likely to acknowledge that they needed help finding romantic partners than men were.

A not-insignificant number of our male clients told us that they’d signed up because their mothers had pressured them into it.

Rebecca wasn’t among the people in the circle. I spotted Maureen, who frowned at me as though she knew I’d found my way there by looking at her social media accounts.

“Sorry,” I said. I realized that I’d walked in on something intimate. In some ways, it would’ve been easier to intrude on two people making love.

“Are you joining us?” one of the women asked. I recognized her from Maureen’s picture. It was evident from her body language that she was the facilitator of the group.

“Yes.”

There were screeching sounds against the floor as the members scooted their chairs back and added one so that I could sit down.

It was strange to consider that all of these people had murdered parents.

Aside from Maureen, they all looked normal.

Sometimes I wished that the real world were a little more like the internet, where everyone went around carrying words that indicated their traumas.

I took a seat next to Maureen. Her skin was spotty and wrinkled. I would’ve thought her to be fifty if I didn’t know about her young kids.

“We were just doing introductions,” the facilitator said. “Most of us already know each other, so why don’t you start?”

Once again, everyone turned their gaze in my direction.

It made me squirm. I hadn’t expected to be put in such a spotlight.

Coming to the meeting had been a stupid idea.

Friendship was about more than liking the same TV show.

Molly and Noah were making me act foolish.

I thought about leaving. The people in the meeting didn’t know who I was.

I could disappear through that door without making a mark.

But something compelled me to stay. Maybe Rebecca had come into Better Love for a reason. Maybe the universe was telling me that it was time to talk about my father.

“I’m Lexie,” I said.

The others continued to stare at me, as if they were waiting for me to speak. Did they want to know how it had happened? Was I supposed to name the weapon with which he’d been killed?

“Is there anything else you want to share?” the facilitator asked gently. “It’s okay if there isn’t. Each of us needs different things at different times.”

I shook my head.

“I’d just like to listen for a bit, if that’s okay,” I said.

I wasn’t sure how to act, but I got the sense that no one did.

One thing about experiencing horrific events was that afterward others judged you no matter how you behaved.

If you were seemingly well-adjusted, then you were heartless.

If you were so overcome by grief that you were unable to function, then you needed to get over it.

Based on the appearances of the other people in the room, it seemed that the entire spectrum of coping was represented.

“In that case, I’m going to give Maureen a chance to speak, as I know today is a difficult day for her,” said the facilitator.

Maureen was teary-eyed even before she began talking. She had on an oversized cotton shirt that had stains beneath her armpits. She was the kind of person who wore on the outside everything that had ever happened to her. If she’d ever been beautiful, her beauty had been destroyed by tragedy.

“Most of you know that it’s the anniversary of my mother’s death,” Maureen said. “Five years ago today, she was killed by a monster.”

She took some gulping breaths. I was glad that I’d never looked like that, not even in my worst moments. There were benefits to shoving everything down.

“People tell me that it gets easier. I want to know when that is, because it hasn’t gotten easier yet.

I still miss her all the time, and it’s almost worse now, because my memories of her are starting to fade.

Sometimes it feels like I miss someone who never existed.

I can tell that everyone is ready for me to be over it. How can you still—”

Maureen was halfway through a sentence when the door opened again. It was Rebecca. The other faces lit up in recognition instead of displaying the iciness with which I’d been greeted. She was one of them. It amazed me how continuously life provided new opportunities to feel excluded.

We all scooted back, with another cacophony of screeching chair legs.

Rebecca grabbed an empty seat and placed it between me and Maureen.

She gave Maureen’s hand a little squeeze before she sat down.

I thought that she didn’t recognize me in this new context, until she turned and gave me a sharp look that unsettled me enough that I worried that I’d made a mistake.

Had I committed a friendship gaffe by showing up?

I was so good at knowing exactly the right amount of effort to put in with men, withholding and providing with precision to maximize their desire.

Friendship with other women was different, because no one wanted a friend who forgot to text back or purposefully acted distant.

At the same time, neither did they want friends who were constantly needy.

Both of those were errors I’d made in trying to meet people before Molly.

There were also very few norms for establishing new friendships, especially in adulthood.

Showing up at the Children of Murdered Parents support group was the most normal way I could think of to develop my connection with Rebecca, and yet it was possible that I’d gone too far.

“I’m so sorry, Maureen. I got caught up at work,” Rebecca said. The two women were at opposite ends of the grief spectrum. Rebecca was polished everywhere that Maureen was rough. I could tell that Maureen, like me, relished proximity to Rebecca.

“It’s okay. I appreciate you so much, Becky. You’ve done more for me than almost anyone else in my life,” Maureen said, the tears now dripping fat down her wet cheeks.

I knew from Rebecca’s file that being called “Becky” was a pet peeve of hers. Either Maureen and Rebecca were close enough that Maureen was allowed to cross those boundaries, or Maureen thought they were better friends than they were.

“What was I saying? I can’t remember.” Maureen’s face had become a waterfall.

It wasn’t a flattering look on her. I wondered who she’d be if her mother were still alive.

I noticed that she didn’t wear a wedding ring.

An irony was that it was almost always easiest to love those who needed it the least.

“I need a minute,” she gulped.

“Take as much time as you need,” the facilitator said kindly. I suspected this wasn’t the first time that Maureen had had such a meltdown.

The facilitator started to speak, but Rebecca’s voice broke through. She had a command that overrode any established hierarchies in the room.

“Did our newcomer introduce herself yet?” she asked, referring to me. “I’m sorry to have missed what she said.”

I noticed that she didn’t mention that the two of us had a prior relationship.

It was possible that she wanted to obscure the fact that she was seeing a matchmaker.

People often did, especially people as attractive as Rebecca.

They were embarrassed that they needed the help.

I’d even attended clients’ weddings at which they talked around the fact that they’d met through Better Love.

However, I got the sense that something more was at play here.

The two of us were speaking a language that no one else could understand.

I realized that I needed to give Rebecca something to show that I was trustworthy. I needed to show her that we were cut from the same kind of cloth, even though it had a different pattern, that the connection between us went further than a shared interest in reality television.

“I’m Lexie,” I said, though she already knew. If she wanted to keep the details of our prior relationship a secret, then so did I. Ostensibly, I was speaking to the whole room. Really, I was speaking only to her. “I haven’t shared yet. It’s hard for me to talk about it.”

“It’s hard for all of us,” a woman across the circle said. It was intended as a show of solidarity, but I resented the interruption.

I made eye contact with Rebecca before I spoke. I wanted her to know that what I was about to share was an admission of goodwill. I wasn’t there to hurt her. I was there because I wanted us to be friends.

“My father was murdered,” I told them. They were words that I’d rarely spoken out loud.

I let my voice crack the same way that Maureen’s had.

She was a veteran when it came to talking about her parent’s death, whereas I’d spent years doing the opposite.

It was uncomfortable to open a box whose hinges were rusted shut.

“He was stabbed to death. His head was cut off. His organs were removed. I don’t think I’ve ever totally processed it.

He wasn’t a good dad. He left me alone a lot, forgot about my birthday, things like that.

There were times when I wished he would die.

Then, when he did—well, sometimes I worry it was my fault, like I ushered it into the world. ”

A hush fell over the room. Normally I resented things like that. I didn’t like being treated differently because of who my parents were. I wanted to be taken as I appeared to be: a happy, smart, pretty woman who was worthy of marrying a doctor.

“You didn’t, honey. It’s not your fault,” she said.

There was pleasure in the confession. For the very first time in my life, I’d been accepted by a group because of who I was, rather than ostracized.

Of course, I hadn’t told them the full story.

Almost no one knew that. Molly knew most of it, and Aidan—well, he knew an amount that I wished I could remember.

When I told her, Molly did her best to put on a mask of empathy, but I could see her squirming in her seat.

Stories like that were all good and fun when they were embedded within a movie or a true crime podcast. No one wanted to actually be close to the by-products of horror, because they worried that it was contagious.

All I could hope was that Molly hadn’t told Noah what I’d told her, or that if she had, he didn’t believe it.

That was the kind of childhood I’d had—the kind that was so uncomfortable that people needed to believe it was fiction.

Rebecca’s eyes met mine. I saw no sign of revulsion or fear. Instead, it almost looked like she was smiling.