Walking on Broken Glass

by Christa Allan

  “Great, really. We both love to read, so it works out.” She opened the door. “I’ll be right out.”

  Slug. I felt like a slug. She was not at all what I’d expected. No, what I’d assumed. I’d judged her with my puny self-esteem. If she’d judged me using her generous self-assurance …

  Why did I struggle with friendships with other women? Molly and I met on the equal playing field of age and our husbands’ shared jobs. We’d experienced, through the years, tragedies that bound us to one another. I never felt intimidated by her—and there it was. I’d heard at one of the AA meetings that in our recovery, God revealed truths slowly because we wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of them all at once. Thank you, God, for sparing me the steamroller of guilt.

  She popped out wearing khaki shorts, a sleeveless celery v-necked sweater, and white flip flops. Cute. Instead of the fitness trainer-toned body I assumed she’d have, her clothes had disguised legs and arms that were thin and knobby. Everyone has a story to tell. Another poster in my classroom. Time for the teacher to become the student?

  “Want to see what we can find for breakfast? I’m starving,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

  “Sure. I’ll need to change. Meet you at the desk,” I said.

  “You look fine. I looked like a ghost in that nightshirt. Besides,” she lowered her voice, “my puny boobs and body are hard to hide in that thing.”

  “Fine? You didn’t tell me you’re almost blind. I look like—”

  “—a recovering alcoholic who just woke up?”

  For a swallow of time, I stared at her. Then we convulsed in laughter and headed downstairs.

  Several waffles and three cups of coffee later, I learned her name was Gertrude and the silver-haired man from group was her husband, Adam. The woman was a bundle of surprises.

  “I’ve never met anyone with the same name as Hamlet's mother. Please tell me they didn’t know that Gertrude.”

  She smiled. A sad smile. “You know, in high school, I was that Gertrude. Shallow, promiscuous, manipulating men.” She added more milk to her coffee. “But she drank poison, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I snorted mine. And I didn’t die.”

  It sounded like an apology.

  I squirmed. Over-sexed mothers who kill themselves didn’t make for comfortable breakfast conversations. I steered in a different direction.

  “Kids in school must have tortured you,” I said.

  Her face shed its veil, and she perked up. “They tried.” A light clicked on in her eyes, and she smiled broadly. “When I was almost five, I beat up the kid next door. He called me Turd-trude. My father was so proud. Really. He bragged for years about that. Giving Cole that black eye saved me in kindergarten. In middle school, I added an “i” and told everyone my name was Trudie. And that's what I was until I met Adam.” She looked past me. Her eyes dulled for a few blinks, then the lights turned on again, and she was back. “He called me Tru. Ironic. Considering the drugs and all.”

  I didn’t say anything. I figured we’d talk about the “drugs and all” some other time. “I’m glad we bumped into each other.” I hesitated. “I’m embarrassed I didn’t try to talk to you sooner. I thought you’d be different. And you are different … in a good way.”

  “I get that a lot.” She laughed as we walked away from depositing our trays. “Hey, it's not like I tried either. Those first few days were such a nightmare, I thought I’d come here to die. Maybe even hoped I would. Jan told me sometimes one day at a time's too unmanageable. So I started just trying to make it five minutes at a time.” She pulled open a door outside the cafeteria.

  “That's not a bathroom,” I said.

  “I know. Do you take the stairs too?”

  “I do now.”

  We made it upstairs, but my stomach felt like it was headed another floor up.

  “I’m going to lay down for awhile. Not sure breakfast is going to stay with me,” I said.

  “Too much exercise?”

  Cathryn gazed up from her book. “Oh, hi, Trudie. I heard Leah, but didn’t realize you were with her.”

  “We had breakfast together,” Trudie announced like a five-year-old who’d just learned to tie her own shoes.

  I pulled my hair away from my neck. “Is it hot in here?”

  Trudi placed her hand on my forehead. The coolness felt good. “You do feel warm. Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

  Cathryn stuck a pen in the book to mark her place. “Come sit down. I’ll take your temperature. Lord knows, we already have enough diseases around here.” She walked over to the chair where I waited.

  “Joke alert, ladies.” She smiled at us, then pointed the thermometer at my mouth.

  “Here you go.”

  It beeped. 98 degrees.

  “Maybe you’ll feel better after you rest,” said Trudie.

  “We have antacid chewables. Want to try two of those to settle your stomach?”

  “I’ll try the rest first,” I said, and headed to my room.

  31

  I woke up sad, but I couldn’t remember why.

  Sometimes I’d carry pieces of dreams back, and before I got out of bed, I’d arrange them on a table in my mind's eye. I hoped I could find a pattern to help me understand why I felt the way I did, why the feeling followed me from dream to reality.

  Today the sadness clung to me. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to face it today. Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest anyway. I could give myself permission to rest from my emotions.

  The scritchy feeling that sent me to bed was gone after the two hours I slept. It was almost time for the overnighters to check in. Which meant Theresa would be back. Which meant if I wanted to shower until the hot water ran out, I needed to get moving.

  I’d just finished blow-drying my hair and regretting I’d not thought to have it trimmed before I checked in—you’d think some piece of pre-admit literature would’ve mentioned that— when I heard Theresa.

  “Hey, Miss Thing,” she said and knocked on the bathroom door. “You best come outta there right now.”

  Since she followed her order with a laugh, I figured I was safe. With Theresa, I never knew what intestinal crisis might have befallen her on the way back.

  I opened the door and almost backed into the bathtub from shock. It must have been some weekend.

  “I surprised you, huh? I knew I would. Well? When you gonna tell me how fly I look?” She spun around for the full effect. A clunky spin since she was wearing, of all summer shoe choices, purple and black high-topped sneakers.

  “I’m, I’m speechless,” I replied, and I truly was. The trademark bracelets still jingled and clanged, but the hair she ran her hands through … oh, my. Theresa had returned as a blonde. With short hair. Very short hair. A boyish crop framed her face. Wow. I had to admire her bravery.

  She grabbed my hands and pulled me away from the bathroom door. “Move over here so you can see me better,” she said. Her eager smile and bright eyes signaled she anticipated more compliments about her new style.

  “Theresa, it's such …” I reached over and gently touched the ends of her bangs. “… an amazingly different look for you. How did you ever decide on this cut and color?” Generic expressions, please don’t fail me now, I prayed.

  “Well, it was like this. I said to myself, ‘Theresa, you been down this rehab road before, and you got on it again. You know you need to change.’ So, then, I get this idea that maybe just changing inside ain’t enough. I mean, most people, they can’t see inside changes. Heck, most people don’t ever look for inside changes anyway. Right?”

  I nodded. She was making sense, in a Theresa sort of way. Maybe she was onto something. Or on something.

  “I start thinking that maybe changing my outside would be how people would notice I was different than I was before. You see?”

  “Yes. You’re absolutely right.”

  She nodded vigorously. I had flashbacks of her formerly enthu
siastic hair, springing out every which way, and her beads bouncing all over the place.

  “For sure I am. My cousin, she's about to graduate from beauty school. So, we start talking, and I have this, this— what's that fancy word you got for when you figure something out?”

  “Epiphany?”

  She snapped her fingers. “That's it. I had one of those with my cousin.”

  “Uh-huh.” Really. What else could I say?

  “We got on it yesterday afternoon. I told her I wanted people to see me new.”

  I hugged her. “Well, sister, no doubt. You are a new woman. A brand new creation.”

  “Girl, I can’t believe you just said that.” She jumped back, covered her mouth with her hands, and her purple eyelids almost disappeared her eyes were so round.

  “What did I say? Oh, my gosh. Did I say something wrong? What?” I floundered in my confusion and almost tripped over her suitcase.

  “No, not wrong.” She leaned her head back and spoke to the ceiling. “God, I knew you was with me. This was a sign.” Then she threw her suitcase on her bed, unzipped it, and pulled out a Bible. “You ready for this?”

  I didn’t answer. I had no idea.

  “My preacher in church this morning, look what he talked about. I underlined it right here. Second Corinthians 5:17. ‘Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.’”

  I wanted to take another shower after Theresa left our room. I wanted a shower that would wash away my shallowness, my self-centeredness, and my selfishness down the drain where they belonged.

  If faith had a school, I’d be in detention daily. God knew I’d be a slow learner, so He surrounded me with lessons on my level. The level of dumb and doubtful. He worked me over today. Trudie this morning, and now Theresa. The promise of old things passing away, and others becoming new. There's some hope. I’ll be new. That's almost too good to hope for.

  If Scrooge needed three ghosts to be brought to sanity, what did God have in mind for me?

  “Carl called. Please call him back soon because those two words together are really tongue twisters,” said Cathryn as she unlocked the door to the empty office. “I thought you might want some privacy after yesterday. Jan filled me in.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “And, Leah, you can’t change the past, you can only change yourself.”

  I punched in the number with the hope he may have decided not to answer, and I could just leave a message. Nope. Second ring.

  The crux of the conversation was he wanted to visit that afternoon, but not unless I approved. I’d asked him if his parents were coming with him. Of course not.

  “So, just for kicks—they thought I’d be at their party. What did you tell them was the reason I didn’t show up?”

  “I told them the truth. That you were having a bad night, and you didn’t want to leave the center,” he said.

  If truth can be counted in particles, then I’d say he’d told them not maybe “the” truth, but at least “a” truth. He said he couldn’t tell them during their party, and today they were exhausted after the party, but he promised he’d talk to them this week.

  I hung up and related the story to Cathryn.

  “I told him to call me after he’d told them, and we’d visit during the week. He didn’t sound too happy when he hung up. But since I’m not too happy with him …”

  “How long are you going to hold on to that anger? Sounds like this might be a control issue. No truth, no visit. Is that it?”

  “Shouldn’t it be?” I said. “He lied about why I’m here. That's not a big deal?”

  “Sure it is,” she said. “But here's something I want you to process. Why does he have to tell them? He talked to your dad, which you’d asked him to do. Is there a reason you can’t tell his parents yourself?”

  “They’re his parents, that's all. I just think they should hear it from him.”

  “Then why didn’t you talk to your father? He's your parent. Did you call your brother?”

  “No, Carl asked my dad to call Peter.”

  “So, besides Carl, did you have to tell anyone else?”

  “Well, no. There isn’t really anyone else.” I tapped my foot on the floor, crossed my arms, and stifled my irritation with this barrage of questions.

  “Exactly. You wanted Carl to do what you weren’t willing to do. And now, since he didn’t do it the way you told him to, you’re angry.”

  “I’m angry because he lied to them. He didn’t tell them the truth about why I’m here.” I couldn’t believe Cathryn wasn’t getting this.

  “Does it matter? The why, I mean. What difference does it make in terms of your recovery? And if it makes a difference, then you can call them. It seems to me you’re holding Carl to a different standard.”

  “Yes, and the standard is the truth. That's the standard I’m holding him to,” I hissed.

  “If that works for you,” She patted my back. “I have to work on a few charts. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Cathryn strolled to the office.

  My indignation stepped up to the plate, but the pitcher disappeared. What team was I playing on?

  Disappointed by Cathryn on Sunday, then ambushed by Matthew on Monday.

  “Instead of group this week, you’re scheduled for another session with Ron.” He looked at the clock. “In fact, your session starts in ten minutes.”

  “Am I being punished because I disagreed with Cathryn?”

  Matthew cleared his throat and leaned forward on the counter so we were just about on eye level. “Punishment isn’t doled out here. Sick people who have enough courage to walk through those doors don’t need us to dole out punishment. They’ve done it enough to themselves. Maybe just trust that session is where you need to be. We don’t need to always understand something to accept it.”

  Maybe I’ve been here long enough. The AA blahblahblah was getting tiresome. “Do you have a catchy little aphorism for everything?”

  “No, no, we don’t,” he said quietly.

  I took the stairs to Ron's office.

  The door was open. I didn’t bother to knock. He knew I was coming. I strolled in.

  “I’m here. The question is why am I here? I’m already scheduled to see you later this week.”

  “I’m wounded. You don’t enjoy spending time with me?”

  “Don’t play around. I’m not in the mood. I’ve had enough of this place. I’ve had enough of these people. I get it now. Don’t drink. Can I go home?”

  “Have a seat. One issue at a time.”

  “I don’t want a seat. I’m tired of sitting. I’m tired of everyone but me having control over my life. When do I get to decide?”

  I didn’t want to cry, but it was too late. I wiped my cheeks with the backs of my hands. Frustration gripped my chest. The tears came in spasms. I grabbed the box of tissue from Ron's desk and sat down.

  “Rough weekend, huh? So I heard. You need a minute?”

  I rubbed my fingers to sop up the wet under my eyes. Blew the nose.

  “You were a voluntary admission. You were free to come. You’re equally as free to go. You don’t have to be in my office right now. After the staff talked about your weekend, I’m the one who suggested you have this time. I thought you might want to talk about it in here first. But, hey, take it to group. You decide.”

  “I’m so stupid. I was such a brat to Matthew when he told me about coming here. Probably worse than mean. I sounded like a ten-year-old having a temper tantrum. I’m sure I pouted.”

  “You can apologize when you see him. If it's any reassurance, you’re right where we expect you to be. This is the tough time in treatment. One month seems long, especially to people waiting on the outside. But only thirty days to unravel a lifetime? Difficult even in the best of cases. Almost impossible in some. And then once we take it apart, people have to leave with tools to construct something out of the mess.”<
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  “Well enough to know I’m sick, but sick enough to think I’m well,” I said.

  “Yep. That's it. If you don’t get it—that's trouble waiting to happen.”

  “I feel like my skin's been peeled off. And spare me the onion analogy. Shrek ruined that one for me. I’m raw. Stuff I thought I’d drowned years ago, it's all coming up for air.”