Grace-filled recovery: breaking the bondage of addiction one life at a time.
Beth rested her shoulder on the doorframe and shot Alice a grin. “Wow, that apartment sounds perfect. And the price—I can’t believe you found a rental in Green Lake for that.”
“No kidding. But I think it’s more about Gertrude. I could tell Betty worries about her.”
The two of them walked into the living room where Luke stood stuffing a wad of dirty gym cloths into his duffel bag.
Beth scrunched her face and pointed to the laundry room. “Toss ’em, buddy.”
“But I’ve only worn them once.”
She pinched her nose and pointed again. “Grab a T-shirt and pair of shorts from the laundry basket.”
Luke obeyed.
Beth turned back to Alice. “So, you going to get the rest of your stuff from the house now?”
Her stomach dropped. She had to . . . eventually. But the thought of seeing Trent unsettled her.
Beth walked over and squeezed her shoulder. “Let me know if you need someone to go with you.” She glanced at her watch. “Wow, I better get going. The ladies will pound down the church doors if I don’t get there soon.” Laughing, she grabbed a spiral notebook and her Bible off the coffee table. “You sure you don’t want to come?”
“I would but . . .” Alice swept her hands over her uniform.
“Right. Observant, aren’t I?”
“I understand. Blue polyester has a way of growing on you.” She paused for effect. “Like cancer.”
“Guess I better schedule a fashion biopsy soon then, huh?”
And then she left. Luke followed a few minutes later, leaving Alice alone in the house.
Was she really taking this step, getting her own place? And what did that mean? Was her marriage over? Really over? After 19 years, two boys . . . But what else could she do?
She grabbed her phone and checked for missed alerts. Nothing. The boys hadn’t called. She’d leave another message this afternoon with her new address. Maybe now that she had her own place, things would be different.
She straightened a quilt draped over the couch, her fingers running along the soft fabric, then slung her purse over her shoulder and left.
Standing on the front step, she breathed in and exhaled slowly. The sun peeked over the roofs of nearby houses, casting a warm glow over the neighborhood. Dew glistened on the grass like tiny diamonds. She plucked a seeded dandelion and brought it to her mouth. Its delicate tufts tickled her lips. Closing her eyes, she blew, like she used to as a little girl. She watched the seedlings float on the air.
Everything was going to be OK. She and the boys would get through this one step at a time.
Sitting in the diner parking lot 20 minutes later, she checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. A steady dose of sleep had restored the color to her cheeks and diminished the bags and circles under her eyes. In fact, she felt almost pretty. Her thoughts turned to Austin, and her heart skipped a beat. Would he stop by today? Did she want him to? She huffed. She was acting like a giddy schoolgirl chasing after the high school quarterback. Yet, it was nice to be noticed. Although she wasn’t going to do anything foolish.
She grabbed her purse, hopped out, and crossed the lot in long, quick strides. Melba met her at the door with a pot of coffee and a sour expression.
“They’re chomping at the bit today.” She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. “Might as well get a funnel going, the way they’re slurping it down.”
Alice tucked her purse behind the breakfast bar. “I’ll fill them up.” She grabbed the pot and began making her rounds—pour coffee, pick up dirty dishes, take orders, fill more mugs, pick up more dishes.
She wiped down a food-splattered table, straightened the salt and peppershakers then darted toward a newly occupied table to her left.
“Fine, be that way.”
The familiar, deep voice sent a flutter through her stomach and stopped her in midstride.
She turned to see Austin smiling at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you come in. Have you been here long?”
“Long enough to watch you scurry around like a busy little rabbit.”
His tone sent a rush of blood to her cheeks. “I’ll be right back to take your order.”
“I’ll be here.”
She made her way to the kitchen, stopping at the dishwasher to catch her breath. What was she doing? Was she flirting with this guy? Was he flirting with her? She was married for goodness’ sakes. OK, so maybe on paper only, but still, adultery was adultery.
“You all right?” Frank studied her with a wrinkled brow.
Alice squared her shoulders and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. Just taking a breather.”
“I know that’s right.” He flashed a grin. “Never made so many cakes in one morning in my life! And that’s the truth.”
“Yeah, well here’s two more orders to add to that list.” Melba approached and handed Frank two slips of paper then turned to Alice. “I think your Romeo’s getting antsy for you.”
Alice’s gaze fell to her wedding ring as a war of thoughts raged through her mind. So much was happening so fast. Was she really about to throw 19 years of marriage away?
She smoothed the front of her dress. She couldn’t think about that now. She had more important things to worry about, like making as much money as possible and moving her junk out of the house.
Lifting her chin, she grabbed a plate of bacon and eggs then headed back to the dining room. Three table-stops later, she stood in front of Austin again, the familiar flutter returning. Her stomach bottomed out completely when he leaned forward, eyes intensifying as his gaze dropped to her lips.
She cleared her throat and shifted. “The usual?”
“Surprise me.”
She stepped back. “Burnt toast special it is.”
His deep-throated chuckle sent an electrifying jolt through her.
Spinning around, she passed old man Carl and his waving coffee cup and headed into the kitchen.
Things were getting too intense. She could see it in Austin’s eyes, the way they fell to her mouth when she spoke, his head cocked to the right like a mischievous child about to talk her out of a bag of candy. Well, it took two to tango. All she had to do was stay out of the dance.
She returned to his table a few minutes later with a spinach omelet.
“How did you know?” He leaned forward, inhaled, and settled back against the seat. He glanced around the restaurant. “Pretty busy today, huh?”
“Yeah, Fridays always are.”
“Guess everyone’s getting a jump start on their weekend?” He opened his napkin and placed it on his lap. “So, what about you? What do you have cooked up for this weekend? It’s supposed to be beautiful.” His eyes swept over her, lingered on her wedding ring for a moment before returning to her face.
So he knew she was married? She almost laughed out loud. Obviously she’d misread him. So desperate for attention that she interpreted a simple question as a pick-up line. What a relief. No more what-iffing, dancing on the edge of sin. He was simply a nice guy.
“Yeah, well, I doubt I’ll get much of a chance to enjoy the sunshine.” This time her smile came easily. “I’m going to be moving.”
His face fell. “Seriously? Where to?”
“Really far away.” She laughed. “Green Lake.”
His smile returned. “Had me scared there for a minute. You need a hand?”
She nibbled her bottom lip. So he knew where Green Lake was? Odd, considering when they first met, he didn’t know where the freeway was. Apparently he’d done some navigating.
“You’re not going to turn down free help, are you?” He cut his omelet into squares and brought one to his mouth. “Besides, I don’t have anything better to do, being the resident newbie and all. And there’s nothing more depressing than spending a Friday night alone.”
“Oh, all right. I get off at four.”
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br /> CHAPTER 39
By the time Trent forced his eyes open, it was near midday. His head felt like it’d been leveled by a Mack truck. The air, heated to near boiling by the rays penetrating his windshield, weighed heavy in his lungs. His sweat-drenched shirt smelled like decomp. Which was why he needed to get to a gas station. A splash of water to the face and some soap-laden paper towels to the pits and he’d be good to go. Might even be able to get a few drops of gas.
He grabbed a can of chili out of the paper bag and popped it open. After sifting through the other food items, he gave up on finding a spoon. Oh, well. As the saying went, beggars can’t be choosers. He threw his head back and poured the cold contents down his parched throat. With a few gulps, he emptied his last bottle of water. He snorted. An entire bag of food and only four water bottles. But then again, most of the other moochers probably weren’t living in their cars.
Last night he got the first restful sleep since he started bumming it three weeks ago. Maybe cockroach havens were good for something after all. Their parking lots made perfect crash pads. No security guards or policeman banging on your window. Although the lowriders and punks with spray cans were almost as bad, but even they knocked off by two a.m. They’d caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end a couple times, when their beady eyes gave his shiny four-door a once over, but in the end, they’d left him alone. Pathetic really. He was so down-and-out even the local punks wouldn’t give him the time of day.
He turned his key in the ignition and headed south. He pulled in to the first gas station he saw. A woman stood at the pump. Two toddlers were strapped in car seats in the back of her car. She glanced up as Trent drove by. He looked away, cheeks hot.
Eying an attendant smoking a cigarette just outside the store’s entrance, he drove around back in the hopes of finding an unlocked bathroom. He lucked out. The door was ajar, propped open by a crushed beer can. He got out of the car and slipped inside. Swallowing back a gag as the stench of urine and feces wafted from the yellow floor, he flicked a switch, turning on a single bulb dangling overhead.
Gripping the sink with both hands, he let his head sag between his shoulders. Nearly two decades of graphic design work and hundreds of campaigns under his belt, and he was reduced to dodging in and out of gas station bathrooms?
He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. His rough whiskers scratched his palm. Body odor wafted up when he peeled off his sweat-drenched shirt. Grabbing a wad of paper towels, he soaked them with sudsy water. His skin tingled as he scraped the rough paper against his armpits, chest, neck, and stomach. Next, he thrust his entire head in the sink, closing his eyes as cold water poured over his scalp and down his face. Lathering a handful of soap into his hair, he scrubbed until his skin burned.
A knock rattled the door.
He startled, smacking his head on the faucet.
“Just a minute.” He grabbed his T-shirt and shoved it under the water, working the fabric with his fingers.
Three more knocks, louder this time.
“Hold on!” He twisted his shirt into a tight cord, large drops of water spilling over the sink and onto the floor. Grabbing more paper towels, he made quick work of the mess. He tossed the towels in the trash and pulled his damp shirt over his head. Casting a quick glance in the mirror, he smoothed his hair and opened the door.
A short, boxy man stood on the curb with raised eyebrows. Trent ignored him and rushed to his car, slamming the door behind him.
Any chance old Ethan had dropped some deodorant in the bag? Not likely, but the thought warranted a quick search. Dumping the contents onto the passenger’s seat, Trent rummaged through the cans and miniature bags of chips and crackers. A bright red gas card captured his eye. Gas-Mart and Go was printed across the top in white lettering. With a chuckle, he lifted his gaze to read the sign at the edge of the parking lot. Gas-Mart and Go. Merry Christmas to me.
What a loser, excited over a $20 gas card. That and an unlocked bathroom.
The brochure Ethan gave him lay on the passenger seat underneath a tub of peanut butter. An address was printed on the back. Should he go? It beat hanging out in his car all day. Besides, maybe they’d have coffee and donuts.
After adding a few gallons of gas to his tank, he pulled onto East Madison and headed to Union. Turning left, he continued south until he reached the location noted on the brochure. It looked to be an abandoned warehouse. Cars and trucks lined the curb—some shiny as if straight off the lot, and others rusted and dented with duct-taped windows. He parked between a brown station wagon and a silver SUV.
Two heavy metal doors with unlocked chains dangling from the handles stood in the center of the building. It looked to be the only way in. A quick glance in the mirror did nothing to settle his nerves, although if Ethan handed brochures to all the beggars he met, Trent’s hairy face would fit right in.
He crossed the street and paused at the curb to look around one more time. After finger-combing his hair and straightening his shirt—as if anything could make him presentable—he heaved the door open. A group of people—some in business suits, others looking like they’d slept in a Dumpster—sat with their backs to him. A man with a long gray beard and thick, bushy eyebrows hovered over a metal podium blubbering like an idiot. Trent stepped inside and stood with his back against the wall, listening as the man spilled his entire life’s story.
“One night I passed out, face down, in my own vomit. Woke up to find my six-year-old kid kneeling over me with a bowl of water and a washcloth. Wasn’t the first time, either.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “One day my oldest had enough. He grabbed his things and his siblings and headed to my sister’s. Couldn’t go to their mother’s. She was just as bad as me. Left them a long time back—once the juice got hold of her.”
“You coming in?”
Trent turned to find Ethan standing by his side, grinning.
“Yeah, I guess.” At least the place had air-conditioning.
Ethan led the way to a pair of chairs halfway down and to the right. He paused to say hello and shake hands with people on the way. They threw smiles and knowing nods Trent’s way. He bristled at their assumptions—that he was just like the company he kept, that he belonged here—and the fact that they were right.
“Guess we got the last seats in the house, huh?” Ethan sat and motioned for Trent to join him.
Trent clamped his mouth shut. Yeah, a real happening place.
Claps followed the speaker’s closing. A thin woman with long, blond hair took his place. She scanned the crowd and her cheeks colored. Girl looked like she belonged in the church choir. Not here.
Her hand shook as she lifted the microphone off the stand. “Hello. I’m Lindsay. I’m an alcoholic saved by grace.” Her voice trembled.
“Hello, Lindsay.” Everyone spoke in unison.
“I’ve been drinking for as long as I can remember.” She cleared her throat and tugged at the hem of her blouse. “In many ways, my story’s a lot like Chip’s. Only difference is, when I hit rock bottom, I didn’t care. The idea of dying didn’t scare me. As long as it didn’t hurt. Drinking seemed a painless way to go. Drinking and pills, but pills were hard to get ahold of, so most times I turned to the bottle.”
Her voice grew stronger as she talked. Eventually, she lifted her gaze off the podium and made eye contact with the crowd. “I heard that you could die from alcohol poisoning. So I tried it.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Failed that one, just like everything else in my life. Every day was the same for me. Tore my parents up. Mom about had a nervous breakdown, but I didn’t care. Didn’t feel anything, really. Only thing I cared about was the booze and not feeling.”
She went on to talk about a slew of counseling appointments, interventions, and rehabs. “It got to be a game, really. I’d go, to get the folks off my back. Sometimes I even stayed sober for a week or two. Longest I quit was three months.” She made a part giggle, part snort sound. “Would have thought that’d b
e enough to get me on the straight and narrow, huh?” Her voice tightened. “But there’s no reason to stay on the wagon if you don’t want to live.”
Silence hung in the air, disrupted by an occasional nervous cough or shifting seat.
“A friend”—she laughed—“as if I had friends back then. People were nothing more than a means to an end. If they had booze, we were cool. If they’d drink with me, even better. If they started talking smack about how I should clean myself up”—she waved a hand—“I was through. But for some reason, this girl was different. There was something about her . . . an inner joy and peace . . . and a love for me.”
She pressed her hand to her chest and closed her eyes. “This woman didn’t even know me, and she loved me. Not with the selfish manipulative love I got from my mother or the explosive love of my father. Only now I know it wasn’t her that loved on me. It was Jesus Christ, pouring out His love through her.” Gripping the podium with both hands, her gaze intensified. “That gave me a reason to live.”
Lindsay returned to her seat. Claps followed along with a few “amens.”
Ethan walked to the front and set a leather Bible on the podium. His gaze swept across the sea of faces, maybe two dozen in all, before landing on Trent’s, making him squirm. “We’ve all been where Lindsay was, haven’t we?”
More “amens” filled the room.
“If we’re honest with ourselves. Whether consciously or not, everyone who feeds the dragon dances with death. And at times, welcomes it. Oh, we may act like we have it all together. I know some of you play the part really well. Fancy cars, nice homes, beautiful wives, or Bruce Lee husbands. But our hearts don’t lie, do they? And when we close our eyes at night, we know. We’re living a lie. Reaching, grabbing, crying out for life, settling for bondage.
“But then there are those who have found the ladder. Our ladder is Jesus Christ and only He can yank us out of the pit.” He flipped his Bible open. “In the New Living Translation of John 10:9–10, Jesus said, ‘Yes, I am the gate. Those who come in through me will be saved. They will come and go freely and will find good pastures. The thief’s purpose is to steal and kill and destroy.’” Ethan looked up. “Your family, your job, your very soul.” He turned back to the passage. “But Jesus said, ‘My purpose is to give them a rich and satisfying life.’”
Breaking Free Page 20
