Without alcohol, I was at the mercy of my feelings. After years of being numbed, they were coming after me with a vengeance. I empathized with Superman who had to struggle to control his super powers and not drill laser holes through unsuspecting people. Bushels and barrels of feelings demanded my attention. I flailed in them. Struggled to find balance.
Before my AA meeting yesterday, I had looked for a book I needed to return to Molly. I found it in my dresser between my socks and scarves—no clarity there—and when I picked it up, there was a photo of Alyssa. She wore a smocked Feldman dress, the cloud blue one, with lace around the neckline. Her fine, silky hair was too thin to hold her monogrammed silver barrette. It had landed just above her right eyebrow. One white crocheted bootie covered one foot. Her other foot was bare. I held the photo in one hand, the book in the other. I turned from one side to the other, holding her picture out like something passed between runners in a relay. If I could find someone to give it to, the feelings would go with it. Six weeks ago I would have carried her picture into the dining room, placed it on the table, and returned with a bottle of something. The blessing that day was that I had a place to take my body filled with the jagged bits of broken glass: The Program.
In some ways, I was an alien who’d landed with the wrong operating instructions. Someone added the words “without alcohol” to what had been familiar, and I didn’t know the protocol. How does one celebrate without alcohol? How does one attend a party without alcohol? What do people talk about without alcohol? What do people drink at parties without alcohol? What do people remember the next day about the night before without alcohol? How do people act silly, sing, dance, and, most importantly, make love without alcohol?
Step Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
Maybe that was it. One day at a time. One step at a time.
I came home from my lunch with Rebecca with hope, challenges, and information. She said sober thinking takes time. “In the beginning of my sobriety, I just kept repeating to myself all those, what I thought at the time, were hokey AA-isms: One day at a time. Live and let live. Let go and let God. Easy Does It. There but for the grace of God. And the Serenity Prayer. I wrote them on index cards and taped them on my bathroom mirror, refrigerator, computer monitor, telephone. If my kids would have let me, I would have taped one on each of their foreheads. Take baby steps. AA isn’t a program anyone finishes, so there's really no point in rushing.”
She challenged me to find a church, a place to worship, where I could fellowship with other believers and find ways to serve the Lord. “I don’t know what religion you were or are. It doesn’t matter. If you have a church now, fantastic. If you don’t, start looking for one. Visit. Keep visiting until you walk into one and you hear God whisper in your ear that you’ve found your place of rest.”
Rebecca suggested Carl and I visit a counselor, together and separately. “Here's a card for a Christian counselor. I think she might be about thirty minutes away from where you live, but she's worth the drive. She's someone I’ve recommended to people for years. People in and out of recovery. I really think you’ll like her.”
“Melinda Mendoza. That's a lyrical name. What are the odds of that hook-up? How did you meet her?” I slipped the card in my purse.
“I met her through my mother. Known her for years,” she laughed. “She's my older sister.”
“It's finally going to happen.” Carl rested his leather briefcase on the kitchen table.
My head popped up from my planner so quickly that I felt my neck muscle burn. I hadn’t expected him home an hour early. I’d been lost in nerd-land setting up my new planner and color-coding entries. Birthdays in red, OB appointments in green, AA meetings in blue (the color of the Big Book), anniversaries in pink. Organization was one of my goals, and one I had control over. Courage to change the things I can control. I’d spent hours at bookstores and office supply stores looking for the right planner. The winner was a red leather-bound binder that I could pick just what I needed to fill it. Now what?
He had the one-finger tie-loosening going on while he looked out the window that overlooked what was now a weed-infested garden bed surrounding a giant pine tree. “It's a mess out there. I think you were right about the koi pond. Let's talk to your dad about working on it when he's in town this coming weekend.”
“You’re messing up my color system here.” I looked at the calendar. “His coming as in three days? Why? What's going to happen?”
He pulled out a chair, sat on the edge, and reached over to hold my hands. “You know how long I’ve been at Morgan Management.”
I nodded.
“And you know the only offer that would pull me away from there.”
I nodded again, this time with less hesitancy.
“I knew about this three weeks ago. But there was Brookforest, then coming home, then the baby. I wanted to make sure it was definite before I told you.”
I’m beyond nodding. “Tellmetellmetellme.”
“My last day at Morgan is a week from Friday. I’m going to own forty-nine percent of Thornton Enterprises, and my first job is to open an office in Pine Knoll.”
He stood. I hopped up and down. “Carl, this is incredible, wonderful, amazing, and every other synonym. This is big. This is BIG news.”
He opened his arms and wrapped them around me. I pressed my hands against his chest, and laid my head between them, and felt the muffled beat of his heart. He rested his head on mine, and I felt warm and right. Safe. The way I used to feel and wanted to feel again. If I could just find a way. To stay sober, and to stay safe.
“It's what I’ve been waiting for ever since I graduated from college.” He loosened his hug, but still held me, his hands clasped behind my back. I leaned against them so I could see his face. “I did what he asked. I went to Morgan to gain the experience he wanted. And now he's making good on his promise.”
“I’m so proud of you. So proud you hung in. I know how important this was for you.”
“And for us.” He placed his hand on my tummy. “For almost the three of us.”
I sent a prayer of gratitude to God for this extraordinary event in Carl's life—for his job and for his tenderness toward this baby.
Carl headed to the bedroom to change out of his suit. I set the table, then opened the refrigerator. For a whiff of time, I wondered where the champagne had hidden itself. Nights like this, for Leah of the past, justified celebration of the bottled variety. I reached for the pitcher of iced tea and wondered if there’d ever be a time I wouldn’t think about drinking.
By the time Carl came back into the kitchen, I had everything ready for him to start the grill. He grabbed the platter with the steaks and stopped before he opened the back door. “I meant to tell you this earlier. I’d called your dad from the car on my way home to tell him the news. I wanted him to have a heads-up so he could plan his flights. Didn’t want you to think I was one-upping him over telling you.”
“Not a problem,” I said, and I meant it. I finished slicing the plump creole tomatoes.
We barbecued steaks and ate steamed asparagus and a salad of tomatoes and feta cheese. I’d freed the leaves and pine needles from the antiqued wrought iron table and chairs, and we ate outside. We ignored the steamy August evening, so miserly there were no breezes, just shifts of warm air.
By the time the dampness settled on us like a second skin, we’d finished eating. I held the back door open for Carl who’d volunteered to carry in the wobbling stack of dirty plates, silverware, and glasses. He stepped over the threshold, paused, and turned to me. “This was nice. Our talking to one another.”
My heart heard a whisper of trust in his words. “For me, too. It's been a long time since …” I stared at my hand on the doorknob. The unspoken floated between us like a bloated balloon that waited for the truth to explode it.
I looked at Carl. I whispered what I hoped his heart could hear, “… since I was s
ober enough to do this.”
Later, I spooned my body inside Carl's, felt the length of him against me. His arm stretched down the side of my body. He lifted my hair, and covered the back of my neck in butterfly kisses. He reached over and patted our child, God's work-in-progress. “Good night, Leah. Good night, baby. I love you both.” And we slept.
We’d been transformed by prayers answered, dreams lived, and promises fulfilled. We traveled the road of our shared lives, the markers along the way built by memory. I recalled that night whenever I thought of being held in the cleft of God's hand. Of the simple joy of a generous life.
Carl, my watch, and I waited for dad's plane to land at Fairway Airport. It was the smaller of the two airports in the city, but closer to the country club where we were meeting Carl's parents. Tonight was the dinner recognizing Carl's becoming a part of his father's business.
Somehow, I managed to squeeze myself into the black dress Carl had bought for the anniversary party. Thanks to the baby, I filled out the top of the dress. The horizontal pleats across the waistline left space for maybe half a slice of cheesecake for dessert. Carl's suit was also the same one he’d worn. A maddeningly unfair advantage men have, being able to not only recycle their suits, but to have anyone barely notice.
The days since Carl announced his news passed so smoothly they could have been lyrics in a richly mellow song. He didn’t pressure me with expectations either inside or outside the bedroom. And his willingness to wait increased my willingness to take small, steady steps in the direction of trust. I continued my 90/90 AA meetings, and I called Rebecca every day. Molly and I talked again, but only briefly. She told me she was busy with doctor appointments. She and Devin were human boomerangs during the in vitro procedures and checkups. We made a walk date for the next weekend. I told her if I didn’t start exercising again, people wouldn’t know which end of me carried the baby.
My brother Peter and I talked a few times. The attorneys had kept him busy preparing their trial notebooks for an upcoming asbestos suit. He had to finish before court, so he was going to the office early and leaving late, checking filings and evidence. Well compensated as a litigation paralegal, he rarely complained about his work schedule. The last time I’d spoken to Peter he asked if I’d check my calendar to see if I could squeeze in a weekend or longer in New Orleans. “I’ll check on AA meetings close to my house. I wouldn’t think we have a shortage of alcoholics in this city. Well, maybe of recovering ones,” he’d said.
I hadn’t mentioned the idea of marriage counseling to Carl yet. Whether he decided to go or not, I knew I needed to. Ron told me before I’d left Brookforest I had to start dealing with issues that came out during our sessions. “This is the scratch on the scratch. You know what that means, right? You’ve shared some intense situations. No way were we going to be able to process those in just a few days,” he’d cautioned.
I asked Rebecca when I saw her at my next meeting, “Do I ask Carl now with the comings and the goings between Morgan and his dad's company? It might be better to wait until that settles down. Then he’ll have out-of-town trips, setting up his new office.” I looked at her. “I just answered my own question, didn’t I?”
“Good for you,” she said. “I bet you’ll be talking to him real soon.”
“After the dinner this weekend,” I said. “I’ll talk to him on the way home from dropping my father off at the airport. It's tough to ignore someone sitting in the seat next to you.”
For now, Carl and I attempted to pick Dad up from the airport. The flight hadn’t been delayed; we’d already checked. He had carry-on baggage, so we didn’t have to swarm around the luggage carousel. But with my father, possibilities abounded. The most likely scenario was his having found someone he knew. For Bob Adair, “knew” was defined as sharing space with someone for five minutes. Peter and I used to play “name the state Dad's been to where he hasn’t bumped into anyone he knew.” We stumped ourselves.
“Don’t forget. We’re not telling him about the baby until we’re all at dinner. I know how you are around my father. Secrets are not your forte,” I said, attempting playful seriousness.
Carl spotted him first. Tall people have that advantage. “Bob! Bob! Over here.” He waved his arm. I don’t think Carl realized tall men's baldness alone equaled visibility in airport crowds.
Dad walked behind a petite woman, with a liquid honey complexion and a close-cropped Afro. She rolled a suitcase behind her with one hand, and with the other, she clutched the hand of a little boy, probably four or five, with the same smooth honey skin and close-cut hair. He twisted over his right shoulder like soft taffy, laughing at my dad who entertained him making smushy faces. The child tried to walk forward while he looked backward. His mom was as oblivious to what caused his slowness as my dad was to the fact that he caused it.
As the little boy plip-plopped past, Dad made one last fish mouth face and was rewarded with a snorting grin.
“Did you see that little boy? Cute one, huh? How are you two? Come here, honey. Give me a hug.” He handed Carl his suitcase and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “Let me look at you. You look terrific! Carl, she looks great, doesn’t she? So, how have you been, my man?” My dad asked and answered his own questions so fluidly that we learned just to ride along until he stopped.
Dad grabbed Carl's hand and pulled him close so that he could reach around and pat him on the back. “Good to see you. Good to see you.” He looked at the floor and swiveled his head. I could tell by the vacant expression on his face, he’d already forgotten where he’d put his suitcase.
“Carl has it,” I said.
“Whew. Great. Let's go.” We started walking in the direction of the car. “Where’d you park? Someplace close?” He patted his jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of glasses, and tapped me excitedly on the shoulder. “Look at his. Smart, huh?” He demonstrated the hinge action of his aluminum-framed glasses. “What’ll they think of next?”
Carl and I shared an eye contact moment when Dad simultaneously shook his head in obvious admiration of the hinge inventor's cleverness and cleaned his lenses with a cotton handkerchief from his back pants’ pocket.
“Honey, how are you? With the, you know, all that stuff in the hospital. It worked, baby? Feeling better?”
I slipped my arm through his as we walked to the parking garage. He was probably one of the last breed of men to slather Aqua Velvet lotion on after every shave.
“Yes, you know, I’ve been out over two weeks, going to meetings—”
“Hey, that's great. She's doing fine, huh, Carl? So good to hear that. Oh, look, is this your car? I’d forgotten you had this one.”
“So, I was telling you about the meetings, I go—”
“Bob, why don’t you sit up front. Leah doesn’t mind. I can catch you up on the business news. And, hey, what's happening with the Saints?”
“Oh, let me tell you this … Is this the seatbelt buckle? Leah, honey, you see the buckle back there?”
“Here, Dad.”
“Oh, thanks. You know, they’ve gotta do something in that running back position. You agree?”
Carl nodded and drove down three levels of the concrete corkscrew, stopped at the parking booth, and we were on our way.
I looked out the side window. My dad and Carl hit words between them like a friendly game of air hockey. After every four or five words from my father, Carl slipped in a few of his own. Sentence completion rarely occurred in conversation with him.
Ron's words, “You loved him because he reminded you of your father,” didn’t ring true tonight. How was Carl anything like my father? I didn’t remember this dismissive side of my father. The token attention to an uncomfortable topic, like my rehab. Once I told him I was fine, he didn’t want details. Not that there's anything wrong with his not wanting me to drone on and on about AA when he just landed. And I didn’t mind sitting in the backseat. It's miles more comfy. Besides, when Mom was alive, we’d always sit women in the back
and men in the front.
Don’t compromise yourself, Leah, you’re all you’ve got.
Now where did that come from?
40
Carl was Landon and Gloria Thornton's only son when I met him. Their only living son.
Vic, Carl's brother, died in a car accident at the age of eighteen. He and his new Mustang convertible left home one Monday evening so he could start college at Louisiana State University's Baton Rouge campus. Neither one of them made it. The details, over the years, have faded as has the mention of his name. For whatever reason, the song on the radio, the sun in his eyes, Vic didn’t know two lanes had been narrowed to one as he exited the Atchafalaya Bridge. By the time he realized he’d run out of a lane, he’d run out of a life. His Mustang careened into the boggy ditch. They found his body, a crumpled mess, several feet away.
Walking on Broken Glass Page 24
