Walking on Broken Glass (15 page)

“Yes, on the sofa,” Mr. Square Face said, pointing in our direction. “Are you volunteering to start the Serenity Prayer?”

Theresa looked at her hand as if it had been a new appendage that suddenly sprouted from her wrist. I scooted back on the sofa and luxuriated in the smidgen of joy her squirming provided.

“Me? Oh, no. I was getting your attention for my friend here.” Theresa reached back and wrapped her traitorous leg-of-lamb arm around my shoulder. “She wanted to do that.”

M
y tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth when I heard Theresa volunteer me to lead a prayer I didn’t even know. I coordinated my lips enough to mumble, “Uh, no, not tonight, but thanks.”

I wanted to slap the braids right out of her electrified hair with that new Big Book. It was only my first AA meeting, but I was certain assaulting a fellow alcoholic wasn’t one of those Twelve Steps. I was also sure that humiliating the newcomer wasn’t either, but I supposed she evened the score between us. Theresa's embarrassing me was her payback for what she felt was my fault for Cathryn confiscating her laptop.

A voice from the back of the room said, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change …”

Serenity? They’re kidding, right?

I’m supposed to accept watching my barely six-week-old daughter being lowered into the ground in the tiniest casket I never wanted to see? For weeks I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing Alyssa's face staring at me through the lid of her coffin. In my mind's eye I’d see her eyes, liquid emerald saucers, pleading with me not to let her go. I’d roll myself off the sofa and walk to the refrigerator, open the door, and pray there would be enough beer or wine to give me safe passage into sleep.

A chorus of “Amens” reminded me that people who forfeited tickets to safe passages filled the room. I leaned back, lifted my head to face the ceiling, and hoped the tears would evaporate before Theresa volunteered me to lead the meeting.

The man at the table spoke. “Welcome, especially to our newcomers tonight. My name's Kevin, and I’m an alcoholic. By the grace of God and the fellowship of this group, I’ve been sober for eleven years.”

The room answered, “Hello, Kevin.”

Oh, no. For years I attended school board-sponsored meetings and spent more time engaged in silly icebreakers than in valuable ideas for … hello … teaching. I certainly wasn’t prepared for this nonsense at an AA meeting. Did we end this holding hands and singing “Kumbaya”?

Kevin, who thankfully couldn’t hear the conversation in my head, asked if first-timers wanted to introduce themselves. Before Theresa could even take her next breath, I grabbed her elbow and pulled her back against the squishy sofa cushions. “We’re even,” I whispered, but it sounded more like a hiss.

She looked at me, her eyes small round truth detectors scanning my face from forehead to chin. “Yeah, Miss Thing. We’re even.”

Thankfully, some brave soul spoke up. “My name's Todd.”

“Hi, Todd.” We were like a Greek chorus, only the tragedy was never over.

“I, well, this is my first time here.” He locked his eyes on the open pack of cigarettes in front of him. His blond hair hung like a curtain in front of his face. “My wife, she said I need to be here.” Heads nodded while ripples of affirmations floated through the room. He lifted his head, and I recognized what I saw in his eyes as two lighthouse beacons of panic and shame.

“Welcome, Todd. Thanks for sharing. You’re in the right place,” Kevin said, his consoling voice reminding me of my father's the months after Alyssa died. He had answered his cell phone every time I called, even when all I could do was stutter, “D-d-d-d …” He’d whisper, “Leah, my Leah. It's going to work out. Everything will work out.” I believed him. When I was five and scared to sleep, he’d use his special spray under my bed and in my closet to make all the monsters disappear. I wanted to believe him again.

No one spoke, but it was an expectant rather than an uncomfortable silence. Kevin unbuttoned the collar of his pinstriped shirt. “If we don’t have any more introductions, does anyone have any AA-related announcements?”

Coach Purse Woman raised her hand but didn’t wait to be recognized. She pushed her glasses on top of her perfectly center-parted, high- and low-lighted, chin-length auburn hair. “Hi, I’m Rebecca, a grateful recovering alcoholic.” She plowed through before the chorus's reply. “I’d just like to remind the regulars to pick up their coffee cups and ashtrays after the meetings. You know, your mother …”

The chorus finished for her: “… doesn’t work here.”

“Unless she's here with you,” called out a springy-haired teen in the back who grinned and patted the knee of the woman next to her. Her mother smiled and shook her head gently from side-to-side with the experience of one who's spent years motioning no. If they were getting sober together, did they get drunk together? Interesting dynamics there.

Theresa picked up the Big Book from my lap, sighed, and thumbed through the pages. “Ain’t that cute?” she said to the open book, but the question was delivered in an envelope of bitterness.

I assumed she was referring to the mother-daughter team since there didn’t seem to be anything “cute” about a book full of stories about alcoholics. Surprisingly, Theresa's volume was lower than usual. I seemed to be the only person who heard her. Maybe she didn’t even mean to be heard at all.

“Thanks for the reminder, Rebecca. And Jill—” he nodded in her direction “—is the only one with mother privileges, so the rest of you are on your own.” Kevin pulled a worn blue book from the table. “This is a Big Book Study Meeting. If you need a book, we have extras around the room. We were in chapter five, page sixty-two. Could someone start reading?”

I opened my book. The chapter title was “How It Works.” I know how alcohol works, so what's the “it”? I was on my way to finding out.

Jill's mother volunteered to read, her voice strong and resonate.

“So, our troubles, we think, are basically of our own making. They arrive out of ourselves, and the alcoholic is an extreme example of self-will run riot, though he usually doesn’t think so. Above everything, we alcoholics must be rid of this selfishness. We must, or it kills us! God makes that possible.”

She paused and looked at Kevin, who nodded, and she continued. “And there often seems no way of entirely getting rid of self without His aid. Many of us had moral and philosophical convictions galore, but we could not live up to them even though we would have liked to. Neither could we reduce our self-centeredness much by wishing or trying on our own power. We had to have God's help.”

“Thanks, Shelia. Let's stop there,” Kevin said.

Great. God's going to fix my alcoholism. Maybe Carl should’ve checked me into a church for treatment.

“Usually we cover a lot more ground, but it seems we have some first-timers here tonight. That little bit …”

I quickly diverted my attention to the book I’d snatched back from Theresa. No way was I going to risk being picked out of this group. Besides, what I just heard was definitely not about me.
As if I caused my own troubles. This God who's supposed to help? Isn’t this God the one who took my baby?
How many times at Alyssa's funeral did I have to brace myself for yet another dunderhead's rendition of, “Honey, God missed Alyssa so much in heaven He took her back to be with Him”?

By the end of the afternoon, my raw hands were my red badges of tolerance, stung from the insistent patting of otherwise well-meaning people. My heart was enraged, subjected to hearing Alyssa's name cradled in the mouths of those who’d never kissed the dimple in her shoulder, who’d never felt the warm weight of her in their arms. I blasted a poodle-haired, tomato-faced little man who said God wanted Alyssa because she had finished her work on earth.

“Finished? Finished? You call forty-two days of life finished? So, why are the rest of us here? What are you saying?” I didn’t care that with each question I pummeled him with, I grew louder. I didn’t care that I sprayed his round, seedy face with gin-laced spit. I didn’t care that the alcohol I’d gulped in the bathroom gurgled in my gut. I went for the kill. “So, what does that say about you? Why isn’t God finished with you, old man? Maybe you’re still here because God doesn’t care about you. If God cared about you, you’d already be in heaven, right?”

Molly reached me before Carl's mother, Gloria, did. She steered me to the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the faucets full force, and let me scream every profanity I knew. Probably even some I invented that afternoon.

Molly saved my life then too. Molly was saving my life today in this room.

I missed Molly.

Why couldn’t she be an alcoholic too? Then we could go through this together.

Some wisp of thought curled itself around me. “
Why can’t you be sober? You could experience
that
with Molly
.”

Oh, my. Did I just have a mini-blackout, and I’ve been sputtering like an idiot? Did Theresa answer me? No.

Kevin had stopped talking. “Go, ahead.” He pointed to a raised hand at the table.

“Hi, my name is Jesse, and I’m an alcoholic.”

Here we go again. I couldn’t bring myself to join the chorus, so I just mouthed, “Hi, Jesse.” Too many people here for anyone to notice if I was playing by the rules.

Jesse closed his eyes as if what he wanted to say was written inside his lids. His mouth and his eyes opened at precisely the same moment like they were on the same switch. Both appeared wide and shockingly soft for a man who looked like he lifted trucks for a living. He picked his thumb with his forefinger as he spoke. He didn’t lift his eyes from the book. “That part about being selfish. About how it could kill us.”

A hush grabbed the room by its throat. We waited for the unspoken that would release us. Jesse glanced at Kevin and then as if tugged by the groaning of his heart, Jesse bowed his head. His words drifted up toward us. “I never really thought of myself as selfish. I’m in construction. I work hard. Gave my wife enough money to pay bills, take care of the kids. Figured, what's wrong with me going out drinking with a few of the men after work? I deserved it. I was the one sweating all day, every day.”

Jesse paused.

I wiggled my toes inside my shoes. If they gave pedicures during these meetings, things would seem to move a whole lot faster. This guy's a bit too whacked out about having a few good old boy nights. Why should anyone apologize for wanting to hang out with their friends? I glanced at my nails. Hmm. Maybe manicures too.

Theresa shifted her cargo to the edge of the sofa, and I almost toppled over in the process. Her entire body focused on Jesse. I made an effort to pay attention.

“Well,” he continued, but his soft voice had a jagged edge to it. I recognized that sound. “I told the guys I was passing up going to the bar this one night because I’d promised my little boy I’d take him to his baseball game. But you know one beer doesn’t take too long. When I got home that night, nobody was there. It was almost eleven o’clock. Next thing I know, I’m on the floor, and the doorbell's ringing.”

I plugged my ears with my fingers.
I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to hear this.
But I did. Theresa and her musky perfume inched forward and left behind the smell of rotting carnations.

The man next to Jesse, whose skin looked like sand cracked and fissured by an unforgiving sun, put his hand on Jesse's shoulder. His fingers reminded me of gnarled tree roots.

“I’m mad ’cuz they woke me up,” Jesse said. “I opened the door screaming, ‘You got a key …’ There's a man standing on my porch with the Sheriff's Department. He told me he’d get me to the hospital. That my son would be fine.”

For a moment, I allowed myself to breathe.
See, his little boy's fine. He learned his lesson. Please stop there. Please make this be it.
But I already knew enough about AA to know we wouldn’t all be sitting in this room if there were happy endings. And now, Jesse's heaving shoulders and the downcast eyes of everyone who sat near him made me want to fly out the front doors.

Jesse's voice strangled. “I didn’t even ask about my wife. I was so relieved to hear about Ryan, I didn’t even ask about Cindy. Sheriff told me when we got in his car. Told me the woman who ran the light hit the driver's side head-on. Cindy didn’t have a chance.”

No one moved. The sinners listening to the confession of a fellow sinner. No escape clauses here.