Walking on Broken Glass

by Christa Allan

  I brushed my teeth. I found a clip, shoved it over a large clump of hair, and did something I hadn’t been able to do in a long time. I opened my bedroom door and walked out in my nightgown. The blinds sliced the sun as it came into the den. From my bedroom door the room was awash in sun sliced into layers by the blinds. Those teeny particles floated by like they were on currents.

  No Carl on the sofa. No evidence of Carl ever having been on the sofa.

  I padded into the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed, the thermostat clicked on, the digital clocks on the microwave and oven blinked hello. All was well.

  Still no Carl.

  I looked around for Krups coffee maker. It was easier to find than my husband. It was exactly where it was supposed to be, in its appliance garage. We humans were bizarre. We bought things. Things we enjoyed. Things we needed. Then we decided that we didn’t want to see the things, nor did we want other people to see the things. So we bought things to hide the things. I started the Krups, and heard my cell phone ring. I haven’t heard it or seen it in a month. The “Celebrate” song, which I’d programmed in the last week of school, looped and relooped. If there's a surefire way to hate a song, download it as a ringtone. Naturally, the phone was exactly where it was supposed to be, in the electronics devices fueling station on top of the desk. The nifty little leather valet was home to my cell phone, Carl's Blackberry, two iPod Nanos, and their assorted chargers. Complete with a surge protector, thank you very much.

  Missed call.

  I just found Carl.

  He and his father were on hole #3 at the club. I hated that one. A too-wide water hazard hole that held far too many of my cute pink Breast Cancer Awareness golf balls.

  He didn’t say hello because, of course, there are no secrets with cell phones. He used his “I’m upset with you, but I don’t want my father to know” voice. The one that's too singsongy and too modulated.

  Since I was alone, I could use any voice I chose. I chose perky.

  “Good morning. I called to tell you I put your gift in the original box. It's in the safe.” The generic nature of this led me to believe he didn’t want his father and/or the other twosome of the foursome to know about the watch. Curious.

  “Thanks,” I lilted.

  “Anything else? ”

  Was he kidding? But I ramped up the perk factor and answered, “No.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m on the way home. Good-bye.”

  I’m not given an opportunity to say good-bye. But I said it anyway. For practice.

  Then I realized I didn’t ask if he’d changed the safe combination. I didn’t call him back. It used to be the day of each of our birthdays. 070204.

  Doesn’t matter. In five months, there would be another Thornton. With a new birthday. We’ll need a new combination anyway.

  Golf was definitely a game invented by men, for men. It requires a gaggle of equipment, it is considered a legitimate place to conduct business all over the known universe, and it takes an extremely long time to play. Eighteen holes. Most people are usually ready to quit at hole #14. But an extra four holes is an extra hour.

  I was one of those rare wives, the kind many married male golfers would sacrifice a new Ping driver to have. I encouraged my husband to play golf. I even endured lessons to learn how to play myself. But when I started to detect relief and not disappointment when I’d turn down his offers to play, I didn’t push the issue. Now, I played every once in a while. Enough to justify buying myself a new golf shirt and skirt. Otherwise, I made sure Carl was a happy golfer and bought him lessons as birthday and Christmas presents, greens fees to play other courses, a new club.

  I figured his five hours parlayed into my five hours. I could read, have lunch with Molly, grade papers, shop, read, hang out at CC's, read more. With the exception of paper-grading and the coffeehouse, which I generally paired anyway, most of these had involved alcohol. Sobriety was going to require rethinking all of these activities.

  I knew the watch was safe in the safe (lesson on redundancy), so I didn’t mess with trying to figure out the combination. I calculated I had about four more hours before Carl would be home.

  Rebecca had cautioned me about extremes, especially in early sobriety. Too much time could be just as dangerous as too little time. I needed to call Rebecca with my schedule for the day, which included the meetings I’d be attending. That was one of my post-Brookforest mandates from my new sponsor who told me, “I want to know what you’re doing and what you’re not doing. If I’m not home or I don’t answer my cell, leave a message. If not, I will haunt you.”

  Five polite beeps. Coffee maker code for ready. Last week was my week of lasts at Brookforest. This would be my week of firsts. I was on my way to my first cup of coffee in my own kitchen. I found my usual coffee mug, a gift from my first Advanced Placement class. They’d pushed the envelope when they designed it, but they were so proud of themselves I had to laugh and, of course, accept. On one side, they’d written, “We survived this class,” and, fortunately, on the side facing me, “… with AP-ness.” My principal, who appreciated their cleverness, also told me he’d appreciate my not leaving it in the faculty lounge. I poured the coffee, but immediately experienced two sinking feelings. One was that I hadn’t made decaf, and the other was that the reason I needed to make decaf was sending me to the bathroom for my first morning sickness at home.

  Four hours seemed like a much bigger chunk of time last week. Over an hour had passed, and all I’d accomplished was waking up, throwing up, and dressing up. I found decaf, made a fresh pot of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table to write my first “TO DO” list as a sober person.

  1. Don’t drink.

  2. Call Rebecca.

  3. Don’t drink.

  4. Call Molly.

  5. Read today's meditations in The Promise of a New Day and Twenty-Four Hours a Day.

  6. Carl?????????

  7. Make appointment with Dr. Nolan for 2nd OB visit

  8. Find/buy journal for 12 Step work

  9. GO TO MEETING AT SERENITY AT 6:30. (Al-Anon mtg. @ that time)

  10. See #1 and #3

  When Carl called to tell me he was on his way home, I’d finished #1-5. Rebecca and I had arranged the place, time, and date for our lunch. Molly said she was on her way to an appointment, but she was “grateful and ecstatic” I was home. She said she’d call back in a few days, but she knew Carl and I needed time together. I’d purposely waited on #7 because I wanted to include Carl in the appointment with Dr. Nolan or at least offer him the chance to be there.

  I slipped on my canvas sneakers, cleaned the coffee pot, and brushed on enough powder and blush to not look scary white. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, so I planned to ask Carl if he wanted to go out for lunch. We’d at least be forced to act civilly toward one another in a public environment. After last night, and especially with Carl having spent the night on the sofa, I had no idea which version of Carl would soon walk through the door.

  My meditation today was, “I will accept my life and the paths it is taking, and trust that God is leading me where I need to be.” When I read that I thought of Robert Frost and “The Road Not Taken” and it occurred to me that perhaps Robert struggled with his paths and decisions as well: “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”

  God, if my path in life is a road not frequently traveled, I’m going to need a GPS or I’ll be wandering around aimlessly. Hmm. GPS. God Protects Stupidity. That worked for me.

  Or, Leah, God Provides Salvation.

  That too, God. That too.

  Pappasito's. A lively Mexican restaurant. Perfect. Background music loud enough to swallow conversations. Just sitting at a table is entertainment. Waitstaff carrying trays as round as manhole covers loaded with sizzling, “careful hot plate, don’t touch” aromatic entrees. Why hasn’t cilantro made its way into candles and aerosol sprays?

  “Did you know cilantro is also called C
hinese parsley?” I said to the menu across the table from me.

  “Yes. I remember I heard that someplace. Maybe from you the last time we were here,” it answered.

  “Why do we look at the menu? We order the same thing every time. I’m not complaining. I love the shrimp fajitas. Crave them,” I said, and felt the lumpy dough of the “crave” word drop between us.

  “Shrimp fajitas. Extra guac, sour cream, and tortillas,” Carl said to Andy, our waiter, a striking blonde in a surfer-dude way.

  I dove in the pool of discontent headfirst. “I need to make an appointment with Dr. Nolan. She's the OB. I wanted to talk to you before I scheduled it. In case you’d want to go.”

  He pushed back in the chair, the one-shoulder-dropped look that radiated aggravation. “Now, when did you make this decision? What happened to Dr. Foret?”

  I explained my decision had nothing to do with not liking Dr. Foret, but everything to do with not wanting to have everything about this pregnancy remind me of Alyssa. “Dr. Nolan was recommended by someone at Brookforest. I’ve already met her, and I really like her. I think you would too.”

  “It seems you’ve made a lot of important decisions without me. Is this part of how you changed? You stopped asking for my opinion?”

  Serenity Prayer. Serenity Prayer.

  “The doctor decision I made last week. If I’d talked to you about it, well, that would’ve been strange. Wouldn’t you have wondered why I was asking you about an OB from rehab?”

  “Whatever you want. If you want me to go with you, I’ll make it happen.”

  Now I was on familiar turf. Artificial turf. In his veiled way, he told me he wanted me to be vulnerable first. He wanted me to say that I wanted him there, so his presence was a gift.

  Is this the path, God? I step out first? This isn’t seeming like the less traveled road.

  You forgot about the trust already? GPS, not LPS. Got it.

  “Yes, I would very much like for you to be at Dr. Nolan's with me.” There, I told him what he wanted to hear.

  Andy hovered with the tray, while Carl reorganized the table to accommodate the plates. “I’ll go. Let me know the date, so I’ll put it in my ’Berry.” He nodded to Andy, and over the sizzling confusion of sliding plates onto the table, he said, “That’ll be perfect. We can both talk to her about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.”

  I mentally dumped the fajita plate in Carl's lap. I watched as Andy's eyes shifted to me and back to Carl in microseconds.

  “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it for more than just the food.

  The day went, as my students were apt to say, from worse to worser.

  At some point during lunch, Carl remarked that I wasn’t wearing the Rolex. I told him about not being sure of the safe combination. He asked why I didn’t bother to try.

  The conversation crumbled like stale cookies. I was determined to not fall apart with it. Not anymore.

  “This isn’t about the watch, is it?”

  He covered his plate with his napkin and pushed it to the side. “No, I guess not,” he said, and wore the weariness of his voice in his eyes.

  I asked the waiter, who probably now had a clue why we hadn’t ordered wine, for a “to go” container.

  “It's hard to pretend the last thirty days didn’t happen. So much changed for me. But I don’t even understand it all yet. Can you, at least now while we’re hacking through this forest, give me the benefit of the doubt? Maybe not always presume I’ve done something intentionally or have an ulterior motive?” As soon as the words coasted out of my mouth, I had one of my epeep-a-nees. We disliked whatever we saw in others that reminded us of what we disliked in ourselves. Carl suspected me of doing the very things he did himself. I didn’t voice this. Not yet.

  On the ride home, I told Carl about Rebecca, how I met her, and what it meant for her to be my sponsor. If I shared information in pieces, eventually the whole puzzle would come together. After all, who could assemble a 500-piece puzzle all at once?

  Sure, God could, but He’d already assembled the entire universe. Bang or no Bang. Somebody had to make the parts ahead of time and know exactly where they’d fit when everything settled.

  I dumped one too many pieces out of the box, but I wanted Carl to understand about the 90/90, especially since I’d be leaving the house that night to attend my first post-rehab meeting.

  “Making ninety consecutive meetings in ninety days is committing to sobriety and to the program. It's important. Especially now that we’re going to have a baby. Staying sober is more important than ever. The Serenity Club has Al-Anon meetings on some nights at the same time as AA meetings. We could go together.”

  “Let me think about the meetings. You’re hitting me with a lot right now.”

  “Well, just think about Al-Anon meetings.”

  “Another nonnegotiable … this 90/90 thing?”

  “Yes, but I’m already taking a sabbatical next school year. I’ll be free to attend meetings during the day. They don’t have to cut into our time.”

  “Fine, fine. Whatever works.” He reminded me of movies where the sound track is off, and the actor's mouth isn’t in sync with the words.

  Another first. Driving myself to an AA meeting. Big girl Leah. I did feel alone walking through the doors after weeks of being spilled in with the gang. I looked around for familiar Brookforest faces, but Rebecca told me they’d attended an earlier nonsmokers meeting.

  “I thought that would end with my discharge. Guess Trudie's holding her own.” I laughed imagining Doug when he heard they weren’t stopping those.

  Rebecca gave me a quick hug. “How's it going?”

  “How much time do you have?” I wished I hadn’t promised Carl I’d be home right after the meeting. Just being in the room provided emotional weight loss. Not that the problems disappeared, but I knew I was surrounded by people who understood.

  “Based on the expression on your face, I don’t have that much time,” she grinned. “We’re supposed to meet for lunch tomorrow. Let's meet thirty minutes earlier, and we can use that as dumping time. How's that sound?”

  “Like a gift from God. Thank you,” I said.

  From the front of the room, Charles hit the gavel a few times. “Let's get started. My name is Charles, and I’m an alcoholic. By the grace of God and the fellowship of this program, I’ve been sober eight years, five months, and twenty-two days.”

  “Hi, Charles.”

  “Any newcomers here tonight who’d like to introduce themselves?”

  “Hello. My name is Leah, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  39

  Week One. Every day was like walking through a minefield. Help was always a prayer or phone call away, but the temptations were usually only inches away.

  I expected to be challenged when I first went to the grocery. Not only was alcohol available, but in the drunk days, I carried a drink with me in a Styrofoam cup or one from any number of fast food places to hide the olives. Now, in recovery, I faced aisles of gin, vodka, rum, scotch, bourbon, whiskey, tequila, liqueurs, beer, and wine—just to name the biggies. Both sides of the aisle offered dozens of labels of each. In one store, I noticed aisles with the alcohol and wine weren’t only a tad wider, their floors were highly polished wood, the shelves more substantial, and the bottles neatly displayed.

  I wasn’t even safe in the big box stores. They not only sold all of the above, they often had sampling stations that featured wine or liqueurs. Avoiding the aisles, obvious choice. I felt ambushed by the aproned sample ladies who were placed all over the store. Shaped like squeeze-doll grandmas, they’d croon, “Can I offer you something to drink? Would you like to taste our new ChococoMaraschinoChoclairFramboiseCrème deFraisesGrand Marnier?”

  Then there was the dessert dilemma. Was there real Amaretto in the Amaretto Cheesecake or was that flavoring? Could I order the bread pudding with the rum sauce on the side? What about the rum balls? I wasn’t going to a meeting to confess I backslid with three dozen rum
balls and two bread puddings. As an active alcoholic I knew one drink was too many and a thousand weren’t enough. I didn’t care if the cook simply opened a bottle of Kahlua near the cheesecake so it would capture its aroma, I refused to eat it. Several servers reassured me about one dessert or another, “Don’t worry, the alcohol burns off.” Then what was the point? “The flaming dessert makes a wonderful presentation,” one waiter explained. Wasn’t it enough that my fireplace flamed? Hadn’t one of those caused extensive damage to a French Quarter restaurant?

  Carl's approach at restaurants required more diplomacy, “She's a recovering alcoholic. Is there any alcohol in that?” I’d asked him if, for the next few months, he minded replacing “a recovering alcoholic” with “pregnant” as the results would be the same.