Walking on Broken Glass

by Christa Allan

  I shoved my right thumbnail into the cuticle on each finger of my left hand, pushed the skin back, and wished I’d been blessed with my mother's smooth porcelain tapered fingers— hands that could’ve rested softly on piano keys instead of packs of cigarettes and cheap lighters.

  “My mother drank.” I worked back the skin on my ring finger. “Wine.” I moved to my little finger. “Every day after work. Weekends, too.” Finished.

  Ron sat down. “Okay, we’ll start there.”

  24

  The white eyelet halter or the sleeveless red wrap?”

  I stared at the dresses draped across my bed, tapped my foot on the floor, and pulled my robe tighter.

  If I didn’t start drying off better, my calves eventually would turn into popsicles from the air blowing out of the bedroom vents. That closet-sized bathroom invaded by steamy post-shower dankness suffocated me. I felt pin-pricks of anxiety about to give birth to panic, and I could hardly escape fast enough.

  After several times of witnessing my desperate bolting out of the bathroom like my back was on fire, Theresa said she just stayed away from the door when she heard the water stop. Since after breakfast today, though, she stayed away from everything and everybody.

  “Hey, you haven’t moved in over an hour. And I know you’re not sleeping because you’d be snoring by now. White or red? Come on. I need some help here.”

  Theresa looked like a life-sized rag doll. Her hair, roped and ribboned, fanned out over the pillow. Clasped across her stomach, her hands seemed puny and naked without her gallery of rings. The Pepto-pink velour pants encased her curves. I couldn’t tell if her too-small clothes were trademark or reminiscent of a Theresa past. Shame on me. I focused on the weight of her body and not the weight of her spirit. What was that line in Matthew about being judged by the same rules we use to judge others? God probably has a team of angelic architects designing a scale that would announce the weight of my sins to the universe.

  “Girl, you can be one pain in the …” She slid the pillow over her face and smothered the rest of her sentence.

  “Butt. Yes, I know. Just open one eye if that's all I can get from you right now and pick a dress. I promise not to bug you the rest of the day.”

  She shoved the pillow off her face, and it dropped on the floor. “I’ll make that deal. Whatcha got over there so important I gotta wake up?”

  “Carl's going to be here with my dad for our first family session. I don’t want to look fat. Carl hates it when I look fat.”

  “Then he won’t so much like me, huh?” She laughed and sat up on the side of her bed.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. He won’t care how you look. He just cares how I look.”

  “Well, thanks again, girlie. Now, why I want to help you after you loud capping me and all?”

  Clearly, sobriety was counterproductive to my diplomacy. I plopped on the bed next to Theresa and reached over for one of those one-arm hugs. “I’m an idiot.”

  She tilted her body away from me. “Yeah, you really right if you think we going to be huggy and all that.” She pulled the red dress from my bed and handed it to me. “Wear this. You ain’t got no business wearing a dress the same color you are. Besides, you still got a waist. No use wastin’ it.” She slapped her knee. “Funny. Wastin’ it. Got it?”

  I actually did laugh. For Theresa, a pun was bonus points on her humor grade. But if she noticed I was the shade of school glue, that couldn’t be good. Then again, if I wanted a tan I should’ve found a seaside rehab facility.

  “Who are you going to see today?” I unzipped the dress and pulled it over my head.

  Theresa slid her back against the headboard and reached for her latest People magazine on the dresser. “That hoochie should be taking better care of her babies.” She pointed to a recently crazed young singer on the cover and flipped through the pages. “Ain’t nobody coming today.”

  Her voice dropped so low it could have met me under the bed from where I grabbed my white sandals.

  I wiggled my feet into the sandals, then checked to make sure I’d shaved under my arms. Hair like that was only sexy on Brad Pitt's chin. “Nobody? Why not?”

  “Noneya.”

  “What?”

  “Noneya business.”

  Wolf words in sheep clothing. The universal “nothing” reply from a wife whose husband asked, “What's wrong?” Nothing meant everything. Nothing meant you should already know. Nothing meant ask me until I tell you.

  A part of me wanted to agree with Theresa that it wasn’t my business. I guess much like Carl wanted to believe “nothing” could really mean nothing. Those nights in bed when he scanned my face and asked what was wrong, did he know his actions always answered his question?

  “You win. It's not my business. But I just asked because, well, I just didn’t think it was that personal a question. But, apparently, it was because you’re so defensive. So, if you don’t want to tell me—” I tugged the dress over my hips. My hips tugged back.

  “I don’t wanna tell you. Know why?” Her voice was as tight as the magazine she’d rolled into a thick baton. Hoochie Mama's leering cover smile curled in on itself.

  “Obviously not. If I knew the answer I wouldn’t have asked the question.” Weary sarcasm.

  “Why you’re here and not that husband of yours, I don’t know. I could see him wanting to drink having to live with you and all. You think just because we’re stuck in this room together we’re gonna be sista-friends? You the kind of chick wouldn’t pay no mind to me outside this place. I’m the woman who cleans your friends’ houses or waits on you at one of them lady lunch places. You walk around here with your fancy clothes and get visits from your fancy friends and your Rolex husband—”

  I opened my mouth to tell her it was his father's watch, but her words moved in before mine could move out.

  “And, yeah, I know people like you wear ’em and I know a Rolex when I see one. In pawn shops when I bring my rings and bracelets there so I can feed my kids ’cuz I used the grocery money to feed my habit.” She sighed and lowered her head.

  I’m so stupid and so sorry. Shame smeared itself on my face like it did the afternoon Carl's mother whined about her half-completed pool cabana to her housekeeper who lived in a trailer with her sister and five children. How small was my world? I’d buried my mother, my sweet daughter. My losses were like globby scabs that would crust and heal and leave darkened remnants on my skin. Theresa's losses refused to die. Instead, everyday, they buried a part of her.

  When she lifted her eyes to look at me, guilt and mourning tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Sometimes I done other stuff when I needed money. That's why my husband ain’t coming to no family sessions.” She clenched the magazine. “And my kids won’t be, neither.”

  Sadness settled in my body and searched for familiar space. Only now, there’d be no floating along the river of alcohol to give it passage out. No way to drown itself in pools of forget-fulness. It crawled through the tender gaps in my heart and dragged wagons of memory behind.

  “This is why I drank. To make life go away,” I whispered to the pain that linked us. “What do people do with this? Where is it supposed to go?”

  Theresa exhaled. “Guess if I knew I wouldn’t be here.”

  I coaxed the door of my room closed so I wouldn’t wake Theresa. She’d fallen asleep sometime after I’d lost the battle trying to blow dry my curls into submission, but before I slathered on lip gloss. I envied her temporary reprieve from untangling emotional knots, especially since I was on my way to a possible hanging with my own.

  Some family members were already in the waiting room. Miss Designer Drugs held court with a tallish, smoky-grey haired man, attractive in your friend's father kind of way, and a freshly squeezed out of an Abercrombie catalog young couple. I walked by them feeling like a squatty tomato on legs.

  Cathryn sat on the couch talking to Doug and a woman whose hand rested on his thigh. I’d expected Mrs. Doug to be a fe
male replica of her husband, not an older version of Jan Brady wearing Birkenstocks.

  I leaned against the wall facing the elevator doors, twisted my watch around my wrist, and waited.

  Three twists, no Carl.

  Four. Maybe he changed his mind.

  Five. He would’ve called.

  Six. Hadn’t I wished he wouldn’t come?

  Seven. Maybe I changed my mind.

  Eight. Cathryn announced group would start in five minutes.

  Nine. The elevator shuddered its way up.

  Ten. Trey trotted out of the elevator.

  Alone.

  Just like me.

  Journal 10

  The summer before college. Driving along the lakefront in Nina's new Cutlass convertible. Janie in the front seat. Me in the back. Humidity dragged its moist blanket through the night, the white leather seats of the car sweating underneath my bare thighs.

  Somewhere along the serpentine road was Todd, Nina's almost fiancé, his fraternity brothers, and several kegs. On Friday nights, the park-like strip bordering the seawall that contained the smashing waves rippled with hives of bathing-suited bodies swarming around beer barrels.

  Finding one worker bee even with the queen bee in control of the flight pattern was challenging. No Todd sightings. Nina's impatience escalated. Janie suggested one more swing around to Inspiration Park. The Cutlass coasted into the one vacant parking spot.

  “I’m walking out to the pier. Maybe they’re hanging out there. No way we’d see ’em from here,” Nina said.

  Janie opened her door. “I’m going with you. You coming?” she asked me.

  “Nah, I’ll wait here. You can come get me if you find him.” The shroud of self-consciousness wove itself around me at the thought of walking up to a herd of frat boys. Let Janie and Nina part the sea of strangers with their lean bodies and long hair. I’d stay here, listen to the waves slosh against the walls, close my eyes, and imagine myself thin and cute.

  I heard shouting and saw, in the distance, Nina and Janie running toward the car. At first I thought they were yelling for me. Too late, I realized they were yelling at me. “Start the car. Start the car, now!”

  I started to fling myself over the front seat, but the back door opened, and hands slapped against my calves as they grabbed onto me and yanked my body onto the backseat. The hands moved up to my knees. Pulled me toward the now open back door. I grabbed the edge of the seat near the other door. I wanted to scream, but my face was mashed into the cushion. I turned my head to the side to breathe. My cheek burned as it skidded across the leather seat.

  “Where ya think ya going, honey?” The wet voice was sticky and hot in my ear. The spoiled fruit smell of stale beer drenched my nose. The hands at my knees worked their way up my thighs. I twisted my body, but I flopped like a fish pinned to a pier. I heard myself grunt. I bit my lips and clenched my teeth.

  Nina. Janie. Where were they?

  One hand reached the hem of my shorts. The other fumbled its way up to my waist. I pushed my body against the seat to stop the fingers crawling over my bare skin. I let go of the seat with my hands and batted my arms behind me. I fought with air. I kicked. I felt him lean across my legs.

  The door by my head creaked open and a new hand that reeked of cigarette smoke pushed my head into the seat. “Cool off, girl. You’re not going anywhere,” he laughed. A wave of warm beer splashed across my face, and my wet hair fell into my eyes.

  The car started. Oh, dear God, please let that be Nina. Please let that be Nina.

  “Janie, close the door. Close the door. Close it, now.” Nina sounded like a siren wailing underwater.

  “Let go of her,” Janie screamed. I heard a solid thump. A male voice roared, spewed language as foul as the meaty hands that held me. Hands that now slid down my body. The door by my feet slammed. My freed legs crawled up the seat.

  The voice at my head yelled, “You crazy—” I reached up and dug my ragged fingernails into flesh, again and again, like raking wet sand to make trenches.

  “It's gonna take more than that,” the voice growled, but his grip loosened enough for me to pummel his hands while I scuttled away. When I could, I yanked away clumps of my hair not soaked with beer.

  “Let her go ’cuz I’m backing up whether you do or not. Hold on, Leah,” Nina screamed.

  The stench of sweat and cigarettes released me. My jaw ached from the tightness.

  I lunged for the door handle inches away from my hand.

  “Wait, wait.” Janie scrambled over the front seat, tumbled into the backseat, and fell over my now outstretched body. “The door's still open.”

  She reached over me. “Now, Nina.” Janie's voice scratched against the dankness in the car, “Back up. Fast. Run over every disgusting one of them if you have to.”

  The door slammed closed. So did my heart.

  25

  That's why we hope you learn the Serenity Prayer early, you know. For times like this.”

  Cathryn leaned on the wall next to me. Handed me a stick of Wrigley's Spearmint gum. Whoosh of a memory. Rifling through my mother's purse. Bits of tobacco always dusted the bottom of the fabric liner and clung to the sticks of gum she’d tear in half and throw back into her purse.

  “No, thanks. I saw a video of myself chewing gum. You would’ve thought my jaws were hinged with springs. Ugly. Haven’t touched the stuff since.”

  “Hey, maybe I should suggest that to the intake counselors— videos of people drinking, using …” She elbowed me ever so slightly. Ha. Ha.

  I contemplated my unpolished toenails and avoided eye contact with Cathryn. She’d see my naked sadness. “I guess Carl's not coming.” The words dropped out of my mouth like pieces of dinners I’d thrown up after too many martinis.

  “You stuck to this wall or can we sit down and talk?” I followed Cathryn as she walked in the rec room and sat on the sofa. “Like the dress, by the way. Red's your color.”

  When she reached over to stop my hand scratching, I smelled gardenias and vanilla. My stomach lurched.

  “Did you really want him here? Or did you just not want to be the one left out?”

  “Left out? Left out of what? Therapy torture? Who wouldn’t want to miss that?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Not what I meant.” I inspected the warmish budding pink welts on the top of my hand. “Even if I didn’t want him here, why didn’t he want to be here? He didn’t even call. What's up with that? Was this his way of punishing me? Making me look like—”

  “Like what? You sound like you’ve just been stood up for prom. Whoa. That's it, isn’t it?” She reached over and swatted my knee, a smile emerging like she’d just delivered a punch line.

  “Hm.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Well, since that never happened to me, I wouldn’t know. Why, was that something you have personal experience with? Maybe you should tell me.”

  My meanness slapped the smile off Cathryn's face. Her mouth rippled into a smirk.

  “Nice try, but you’re not going to start a fire to take the heat off yourself. You need to own this one. Carl's not being here is about you, not him.”

  The roller coaster in my stomach chugged its way up my throat. I waved my hand in front of her. “Wait. Gotta …” I dashed for the bathroom, hoping the wheels would stop turning in my mouth before I retched them up.

  Drunk vomiting had been welcomed. Cathartic, sober vomiting, not so much. The insides of my nose burned, and the sourness of the lasagna that recycled itself out of my stomach and into the toilet lingered on my tongue. Maybe I should have reconsidered that whole gum-chewing decision. I shuffled to the sink, latched onto the sides of it to steady myself, and dared look into the mirror.

  The damp black, supposedly waterproof mascara puddled in the corners of my eyes. If only I could throw up the sadness and its emotional tug on my face. I searched for a fragment of long-ago Leah lurking in eyes shaded by doubt and confusion. God, if you’re really there, wherever there happ
ens to be, now what? What do I do when I don’t know what to do?