“You know, I truly don’t remember my parents engaged in verbal warfare with one another. But if she was mad I usually knew it. You’d think Mr. Eagen had taped her mouth shut. For days. When she would answer, it’d mostly be one-syllable words. My dad would warn Peter and me, ‘It's hard to push a wet noodle, so don’t upset your mother.’”
Ron tapped his pen on his chin and stared at his notes. “Wet noodle.” He enunciated each word as if he’d just heard it for the first time. “So,” Ron said, and turned another page, “your mother was passive-aggressive.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling, but,” he shrugged, “maybe not. Would you describe your mom as an affectionate woman?”
“Are you kidding?” This was a no-brainer. “Mom was the queen of the ‘air hug.’ You know, the stiff-armed hug where another person can almost fit in the middle between the two of you. When we’d kiss her, she’d give us a cheek.”
“Back to our airport scenario for a minute,” said Ron. “Let's say you, or your brother, or your dad will be meeting your mom's plane. Are we still talking air hugs and cheek kisses?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember my dad trying to be lovey in those dorky moves parents try around their kids. Sometimes she’d sputter around the kitchen, cooking supper, and he’d try to hug her. She’d lean back, look annoyed, and tell him, ‘Not now, Bob.’ My brother and I joked we could bank on their having had sex at least twice.” I smiled, but what I’d just heard myself say didn’t feel funny.
Ron swung his legs off the ottoman and sat forward in his chair, feet on the floor. “One more thing,” he said, his voice settled like a silk scarf. “You never mentioned your mother's name.”
“Lola. Her name was Lola. It means ‘sorrow.’”
Another AA meeting. Another group session. Another AA meeting. Days like bumper-to-bumper traffic. Inches of time passed. Ever so often, a spurt of movement. Then, a minute later, nothing.
I decided since there was no way out of the jam, I might as well pay more attention to people on the road with me, and I started attaching faces and names at AA meetings. Hung around the coffee pot. Gushed AA mottos like “first things first,” and “easy does it,” and “live and let live” without looking over my shoulder to see if anyone heard me. Clapped when my fellow wounded walked to the front of the room to claim chips that marked their sobriety. One month. Two months. Six months.
At the end of one meeting, I grabbed Theresa's hand and asked her if she’d walk with me to pick up my Desire Chip. The important one. The chip bought with humility, with the strength of admitting weakness, and with the promise of one day at a time. On the Theresa shock scale, my request registered a saucer-eyed O-shaped mouth and a high-five. Later, she hugged me, a warm, round squeeze, just Goldilocks right.
When Carl, Molly, and Devin visited the next day, I wanted them to understand what this chip meant to me. I wanted them to know that as frightening as the thought of staying sober was for me, it was the most important goal in my life. I wanted them, most of all, to see my baby step of faith in the Program, in myself, in God.
28
Less than ten minutes until visiting time.
I drummed my fingers on one of the game tables in the rec room. The vibrations sent the plastic red and black checkers scooting out of their squares. Annie and her stack of O magazines paused by the table on their way out of the room. “You know, you’re messing up Benny and Vince's game with all that rattling. If I were you, I’d try to remember where those things were before they get back from lunch.” She strolled out before my sarcasm pistol could fire off one of the five or so answers I had in mind.
My chip was on the table, Serenity Prayer up. Another slice of humble pie. Okay, God, I’m a work-in-progress and old habits are hard to break. “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” Maybe I needed to bite the chip, not people, when I felt impatient and annoyed.
“If AA clubs had their own carnival groups, they could throw these as doubloons.” Carl flipped my coin over before he passed it to Devin.
I was impatient for this? Once again, I’d written a script nobody bothered to read before rehearsal. I allowed myself one mental snapshot of Carl biting into the chip, set the Serenity Prayer on replay loop in my brain, and told God the rest was up to Him. Instead of answering Carl, I, well, tittered, which in itself was humiliating. My hand itched.
“Dude—” Devin elbowed Carl “—I don’t think that's what Leah wanted to hear.” He reached across the table to pat my arm. His fingers were thin, like bamboo stalks, and his hand almost as long as my forearm. “I’m proud of you. Big step you’ve taken, kiddo.” He looked back at Carl as if to say, “See, that's what you need to do.”
“Thanks, Devin. That means a lot to me,” I said as he handed me the chip. “And thanks for coming to visit. Not exactly where we’re used to meeting, but the ice cream's free.”
Carl leaned back in his chair, surveyed the room, then stared at me and said, “Technically, not free. Right?”
Wisdom to know the difference. Wisdom to know the difference. Wisdom to know the difference. “Absolutely. Everything comes with a price. Right?” I said and hoped my saccharine smile would substitute for the real thing.
The deafening silence of Carl's ego deflating filled the space between us. He fiddled with the top button on his black Polo shirt.
Molly, ever the diplomat, pounced on the awkwardness and wrestled it into submission. “Devin, hand me Leah's chip.” She read the Serenity Prayer aloud, and turned the chip over. “Leah, didn’t you have this on a poster in your classroom?” She pointed to the inscription, “To Thine Own Self Be True,” that encircled the triangle.
“Strange, isn’t it? That banner stretched across the wall in my classroom for years. Guess I should have lived it instead of just read it,” I said. “Who knew?”
“I don’t get this.” Molly twisted the chip in her hand. “Why are the letters H-O-W inside each angle on this triangle?”
“I just read about that in my Reflection for the Day book. It's Honesty, Open-Mindedness, and Willingness. Qualities we can use to help us see things differently. The Program's about remembering where we came from so we can really appreciate where we are.” Teacher-voice had taken over. “Sorry, y’all. Didn’t mean to shift into lecture mode.”
“Don’t apologize. It's cool to hear you talk about this,” Devin said. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Molly and I want you to know we believe in you. And we want to help any way you need us.”
I didn’t have to look at Molly to know she’d melted right into him.
I should be so lucky.
“You’re supposed to be excited about your first pass, unless squeezing the blood out of your hands is your way of showing how thrilled you are to be leaving.” Jan looked up from the papers at the desk. “You look nice. Where's hubby taking you?”
I stopped pacing to explain to Jan why I wore a dress that cost more than my first car. And the hand-wringing was a form of prayer that it wouldn’t meet the same fate: sandwiched between two cars in a four-car pile-up. Which, for the dress, would mean wearing whatever had been served at dinner and then, possibly, being rear-ended, so to speak, by a chocolate soufflé with raspberry sauce.
At the end of yesterday's visit, Carl had asked if he could speak to me alone. We sat in the empty office near the rec room.
“I want to apologize for showing my butt out there. I don’t do well with so many people around, not knowing how to act, what to say.” He reached for my hand. “But I want you to know I want you to be better. I promise I’m going to help you with whatever you need. We’ll do this together.”
It had been like a visit from the ghost of Carl past. The caring one. “That means so much to me. I know you’re struggling too. Don’t give up on me, please?”
“Never. You know you’re the most important person in my life. I don’t know wha
t I’d do without you.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. He told me not to go anywhere—as if I could—and came back in with a large box.
The package was wrapped with white moiré silk. The red-and white-striped stitched silk ribbon was embellished with a script “NB.” NB for Nan's Boutique where long ago I’d picked up a simple cotton tee, spotted the $125 price tag, and looked around to make sure I wasn’t being “punked.”
That was the first and last time I’d walked through Nan's antique doors, the ones with insets of leaded glass from England. Molly and I figured we could each afford one sleeve of the cotton T-shirt. And that was the end of that as far as my shopping budget was concerned. Carl's mother, however, shopped there so often I’m sure Nan sent monthly thank-you notes to Mr. Thornton.
“So, that's how this dress happened,” Jan said as she walked around the counter for the full-length view.
“When Carl first handed me the box, I prayed that ridiculous white cotton tee wasn’t in it. So, before I opened it, I asked him if the surprise was for our first date, thinking he’d planned something extraordinarily special.” I sighed, readjusted the freshwater pearl necklace we bought in Maui on our honeymoon. Molly had dropped it off earlier.
“And the special is?” Jan twirled her finger in the air; the universal female sign for “turn around slowly so I can examine what you’re wearing.”
I circled in the rhinestone Valentino pumps Molly unearthed in my closet. “Anniversary party for his parents.” The words were drenched in disappointment. “All this—” I looked down the length of the little black dress (what Nan referred to as “LBD”) designed by Stella McCartney “—for them. It's decadent. I mean, who do I think I am? ”
“Maybe it's more like who do they think you are,” Jan said. She answered the phone. “You’re about to find out, Cinderella. Prince Charming's on his way up.”
Carl, as my grandmother would say, cleaned up nicely. I’d forgotten the transforming power of a man's suit, especially one tailored for him.
He walked over, stood in front of me, and, with unfamiliar gentleness, he reached out and cradled my elbows in his hands. “You look beautiful,” he whispered and leaned in for a velvet soft kiss on my cheek. I captured the moment in the net of memory. He smelled like promise and comfort. My hands touched his chest and read the invitation of longing and belonging.
“So do you,” I said.
He grinned. A genuine grin. An expression I’d not seen in a long time.
I signed the paperwork for my first night out, then Jan handed Carl my overnight bag.
“You two kids be good and enjoy yourselves.” Jan gave me a quick hug. She tapped Carl on the shoulder. “Remember, Cinderella needs to be back tomorrow by noon. Don’t be late.”
“No problem. She’ll be here. I promise.” He held out his hand. “Are you ready?”
I’m sucked back in time. Dr. Foret. Delivery room. “Ten centimeters, fully effaced. Let's rock and roll. It's baby time.” He moved to the end of my bed. “Are you ready?”
I’m thinking, “Wait, wait. Let me think about this. I’m not ready. My life will never be the same. Five more minutes, please.” But, of course, I don’t say any of this. I take all the fears, roll them up, and mentally send them to my brain's trash icon.
I had looked at Carl and squeezed his hand.
I had told Dr. Foret, “You bet. Let's do this.”
A lifetime later.
I looked at Carl. I squeezed his hand.
“You bet. Let's do this.”
“I remembered you weren’t allowed perfume. I brought your Hanae Mori. It's in the car.”
“Thanks.”
We stood side-by-side, not touching, except for the prickly current connecting my naked arm to his Armani suit. I channeled the electricity surging between us into my hands, tightening my grip on my Judith Leiber clutch. McCartney, Valentino, Leiber, and a perfume whose name was barely pronounceable. I’d spent almost two weeks in excruciating introspection, and tonight, in less than an hour, a blitzkrieg of designers annihilated my identity.
I handed Carl my clutch when the security guard at the door asked to see my identification. I pulled the hospital's white plastic bracelet out from under my silver and rhinestone cuff.
“Can she take that thing off just for tonight?” Carl's voice didn’t suppress his irritation.
I knew the answer, but Carl didn’t ask me.
“Sure, she can take that fancy jewelry off anytime.” Mr. Jacobs rubbed his grizzly gray hair and man-giggled. He’d cracked himself up.
“Never mind. Was that all you need from her?” Carl handed Judith back to me. Without waiting for Mr. Jacobs's answer, Carl said, “Wait here. I’ll get the car,” and power-walked outside. After the doors sucked closed behind him, I turned to Mr. Jacobs. “Sorry. We’re still looking for his sense of humor.”
“Mrs. Thornton, right? I’ve heard worse and seen worse in all my years here. You don’t need to apologize for him.”
Why didn’t I think of that?
Because if you would’ve thought of that on your own you probably wouldn’t be here.
God, who belongs to that voice? And where's she been with all this insight?
You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. Not yet.
The headlights of Carl's car curled around the entry.
Part of me wished Mr. Jacobs would refuse to release me. Then, through no fault of my own, I’d be forced to stay. But, no, that's alcoholic Leah.
Recovering Leah knows fear stands for false expectations appearing real.
No fear. No fear. No fear.
Courage to change the things I can.
“Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Thornton. Remember—one day at a time.”
“Bye. Have a good night.”
I gathered the parts of me and crossed the threshold.
One small victory.
One small victory at a time.
Carl held the car door open. I slipped into the seat and inhaled the familiar leather scent. A month before Alyssa was born, Carl surprised me with my first Lexus—a white RX SUV. He called it the mommy-mobile. I couldn’t even drive it then. My bathtub-sized belly forced me to push the seat so far back, my short legs couldn’t reach the pedals. Carl had teased me, and said he’d called Mark at the dealership and ordered extension blocks for the accelerator and brake.
It was the last laugh we had about the car. After Alyssa's funeral and a pitcher of martinis, I’d hurled the keys at Carl. Sober, I was a lousy pitcher. Drunk, I was dangerous. The keys had missed Carl, but not the armoire next to him. The mirror in the door shuddered, shattered, and crashed, littering the floor like puzzle pieces made of shiny glass.
Carl had screamed at me. His mouth moved up and down, up and down. He’d pointed at me, at the floor, at me again. Some words sloshed through the martini tunnel. Words like: do you know what that's worth blahblahblah crazy.
“Uh-oh,” I’d replied and stumbled past him.
He’d grabbed my arm. His thumb and forefinger met at my bone. “Stop. Get away from here before you hurt yourself. You’re barefooted. You can’t walk on broken glass.”
I yanked myself away and almost fell from the deliberateness. “Watch me.”
The next morning, while I scrubbed dried blood off the floor, he traded in the SUV for a convertible.
29
Carl closed his door and pushed the button to start the car. “Want the top down?”
I weighed the hair damage risk against the pleasure of the wind in my face and a star-drenched sky for a roof. “How about up on the way to the party and down on the way home?”
“This is your night. Whatever you want.” He leaned toward me, slid his hand under my hair, and massaged my neck. “I’ve missed you. Kiss me.”
My hands moved toward him, cradled his face. My lips tingled against his. Soft. Trusting.
His hand moved from my neck to my shoulder. His lips parted mine. I t
asted salt, a hint of desperation. His other hand cupped my breast.
I flinched. Pushed his hand away. I opened my eyes. Pushed myself into the seat.
“What's wrong?”
“I thought you wanted to kiss.”
“I did. Wasn’t that what we were doing?” His voice grew edgy. “I didn’t know we had rules.”
“Well, I mean, were we going to make out in front of the hospital?”
He smiled. Not a happy smile. A condescending smile saved for a four-year-old who would ask if she could drive to the moon. “Make—(he paused)—out? We’re not in high school, Leah.” He shifted into drive and headed toward the hospital exit. “I’m your husband. You’ve been gone for weeks. I’m not supposed to touch you? Never mind. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to fight with you. Especially tonight.”
Walking on Broken Glass Page 16
