I was in the National Gallery restroom washing my hands when another woman asked where I was from and if I was enjoying the museum—the sort of chitchat that happens in Washington, D.C., where so many people are from somewhere else.
The woman was a bit taller than me and blonde, about my age. She told me she was from D.C. and used to work at the museum. Then she announced, “I’m a famous artist, you know.”
I thought, Seems unlikely you’d have to announce it in a restroom if you really were famous.
Figuring she was joking I raised my eyebrows and said, “Infamous.”
She didn’t laugh as I intended but went on, “I’m 78. I can say I’m a famous artist. Who cares?”
I get it. Claim your power. Don’t let others define you.
I smiled and we moved on to drying our hands by the paper towels.
She told me she lived alone and can paint whenever she wants. How much she likes that. Then she said, “I’ve dated around, but my last husband was a psychopath and tried to kill me.”
Wait, what?!? I felt a bit of deer-in-the-headlights uncertainty but dismissed it. She’s a dramatic person. Probably exaggerating that, too.
We were still alone in the restroom. Wiser people might have said, “I’m so sorry” and left, but I was more intrigued than concerned. That plus ingrained Midwestern politeness kept me there.
“I met him a few years after my husband died of cancer. I was so devasted and lonely,” she said.
“You were vulnerable.”
“He got mad one day when I told him he couldn’t sit around all day watching porn on his laptop. Then he threw the laptop at me, pushed me against the wall, and started choking me.”
Oh, wow. That’s awful! I nodded for her to continue.
“I got out of there and went to the police station. The next day I came back with the police. When they knocked, he opened the door thinking it was me. They took him to jail. Turns out he’d done this before. Preyed on women. Assaulted them. He had a record. He’s still in jail.”
“You were lucky. I’m glad you’re OK.”
I became aware of how long I’d been in the restroom while my husband and friends waited outside, so I eased us toward the exit. To shift the conversation back to neutral chitchat, I admired the top she wore. We wished each other a good visit and I left.
What’s the right thing to do in a moment like that? Was she lonely and simply needed to talk? To be seen? Did she consider her story to be a cautionary tale? And why did she share her story with me?
I’ve shared plenty of personal stories in this blog, but they are chosen and crafted, not spontaneously blurted. I can’t imagine telling a stranger my worst experiences. Even when my husband and I sat in an OR waiting room in the middle of the night, while our son was in the midst of a six-hour emergency surgery, I didn’t go into detail about his accident or my fears to the other woman waiting with us. When it comes to my deepest feelings, I have a strong reserve.
But I’ve learned sometimes your words or presence matter more than you realize. So, I listened to the woman in the restroom on the off chance I was in one of those moments. Was it? I’ll never know.
