Walking on Broken Glass (24 page)

“So do you,” I said.

He grinned. A genuine grin. An expression I’d not seen in a long time.

I signed the paperwork for my first night out, then Jan handed Carl my overnight bag.

“You two kids be good and enjoy yourselves.” Jan gave me a quick hug. She tapped Carl on the shoulder. “Remember, Cinderella needs to be back tomorrow by noon. Don’t be late.”

“No problem. She’ll be here. I promise.” He held out his hand. “Are you ready?”

I’m sucked back in time. Dr. Foret. Delivery room. “Ten centimeters, fully effaced. Let's rock and roll. It's baby time.” He moved to the end of my bed. “Are you ready?”

I’m thinking,
“Wait, wait. Let me think about this. I’m not ready. My life will never be the same. Five more minutes, please.”
But, of course, I don’t say any of this. I take all the fears, roll them up, and mentally send them to my brain's trash icon.

I had looked at Carl and squeezed his hand.

I had told Dr. Foret, “You bet. Let's do this.”

A lifetime later.

I looked at Carl. I squeezed his hand.

“You bet. Let's do this.”

“I remembered you weren’t allowed perfume. I brought your Hanae Mori. It's in the car.”

“Thanks.”

We stood side-by-side, not touching, except for the prickly current connecting my naked arm to his Armani suit. I channeled the electricity surging between us into my hands, tightening my grip on my Judith Leiber clutch. McCartney, Valentino, Leiber, and a perfume whose name was barely pronounceable. I’d spent almost two weeks in excruciating introspection, and tonight, in less than an hour, a blitzkrieg of designers annihilated my identity.

I handed Carl my clutch when the security guard at the door asked to see my identification. I pulled the hospital's white plastic bracelet out from under my silver and rhinestone cuff.

“Can she take that thing off just for tonight?” Carl's voice didn’t suppress his irritation.

I knew the answer, but Carl didn’t ask me.

“Sure, she can take that fancy jewelry off anytime.” Mr. Jacobs rubbed his grizzly gray hair and man-giggled. He’d cracked himself up.

“Never mind. Was that all you need from her?” Carl handed Judith back to me. Without waiting for Mr. Jacobs's answer, Carl said, “Wait here. I’ll get the car,” and power-walked outside. After the doors sucked closed behind him, I turned to Mr. Jacobs. “Sorry. We’re still looking for his sense of humor.”

“Mrs. Thornton, right? I’ve heard worse and seen worse in all my years here. You don’t need to apologize for him.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

Because if you would’ve thought of that on your own you probably wouldn’t be here.

God, who belongs to that voice? And where's she been with all this insight?

You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. Not yet.

The headlights of Carl's car curled around the entry.

Part of me wished Mr. Jacobs would refuse to release me. Then, through no fault of my own, I’d be forced to stay. But, no, that's alcoholic Leah.

Recovering Leah knows fear stands for false expectations appearing real.

No fear. No fear. No fear.

Courage to change the things I can.

“Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Thornton. Remember—one day at a time.”

“Bye. Have a good night.”

I gathered the parts of me and crossed the threshold.

One small victory.

One small victory at a time.

Carl held the car door open. I slipped into the seat and inhaled the familiar leather scent. A month before Alyssa was born, Carl surprised me with my first Lexus—a white RX SUV. He called it the mommy-mobile. I couldn’t even drive it then. My bathtub-sized belly forced me to push the seat so far back, my short legs couldn’t reach the pedals. Carl had teased me, and said he’d called Mark at the dealership and ordered extension blocks for the accelerator and brake.

It was the last laugh we had about the car. After Alyssa's funeral and a pitcher of martinis, I’d hurled the keys at Carl. Sober, I was a lousy pitcher. Drunk, I was dangerous. The keys had missed Carl, but not the armoire next to him. The mirror in the door shuddered, shattered, and crashed, littering the floor like puzzle pieces made of shiny glass.

Carl had screamed at me. His mouth moved up and down, up and down. He’d pointed at me, at the floor, at me again. Some words sloshed through the martini tunnel. Words like: do you know what that's worth blahblahblah crazy.

“Uh-oh,” I’d replied and stumbled past him.

He’d grabbed my arm. His thumb and forefinger met at my bone. “Stop. Get away from here before you hurt yourself. You’re barefooted. You can’t walk on broken glass.”

I yanked myself away and almost fell from the deliberateness. “Watch me.”

The next morning, while I scrubbed dried blood off the floor, he traded in the SUV for a convertible.

C
arl closed his door and pushed the button to start the car. “Want the top down?”

I weighed the hair damage risk against the pleasure of the wind in my face and a star-drenched sky for a roof. “How about up on the way to the party and down on the way home?”

“This is your night. Whatever you want.” He leaned toward me, slid his hand under my hair, and massaged my neck. “I’ve missed you. Kiss me.”

My hands moved toward him, cradled his face. My lips tingled against his. Soft. Trusting.

His hand moved from my neck to my shoulder. His lips parted mine. I tasted salt, a hint of desperation. His other hand cupped my breast.

I flinched. Pushed his hand away. I opened my eyes. Pushed myself into the seat.

“What's wrong?”

“I thought you wanted to kiss.”

“I did. Wasn’t that what we were doing?” His voice grew edgy. “I didn’t know we had rules.”

“Well, I mean, were we going to make out in front of the hospital?”

He smiled. Not a happy smile. A condescending smile saved for a four-year-old who would ask if she could drive to the moon. “Make—(he paused)—out? We’re not in high school, Leah.” He shifted into drive and headed toward the hospital exit. “I’m your husband. You’ve been gone for weeks. I’m not supposed to touch you? Never mind. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to fight with you. Especially tonight.”

“I missed you too. I overreacted, I guess. I’m sorry.”

Lie. Lie. Lie. Does AA offer confession? Accept the things I cannot change … wisdom to know the difference. When does the serenity happen?

“Being out feels strange after being in … and there's so much more going on … like I didn’t expect to be going anywhere. Then you surprised me with this dress, going to your parents’ anniversary party …”

“You’ll be fine. We don’t have to stay all night.” He stroked my hair. “Besides, we only have this one night together before you have to go back.”

I shivered. Carl grinned. “This is a big step for me, going to this party,” I said. “I’m not sure if I’ll know what to do with myself. What do sober people do at parties?”

“Guess you’ll find out. You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me to run interference for you. I’ll make sure you don’t go anywhere near the bar tonight. I meant what I told you at the hospital. I want you to depend on me to help.”

When Carl turned onto Oak Park Avenue, it was like turning into a festival of lights and noise. Harleys dodged around the snarls created by cars either too impatient or too oblivious to conform to lanes and traffic signals. Flashing business signs, the familiar bright arches, chicken buckets of chain restaurants, and the occasional exhaust of a city bus reminded me I’m gone and forgotten.

A few more miles. “I’m glad your parents will understand. That helps too. I’d hate having to explain to them why I’m not manning the blender for frozen daiquiris.” I opened the glove compartment. “Is the perfume in here?”

“Oh, I need to talk to you about that.” Carl switched lanes and waited for the turn signal.

“What? My perfume? I found it.” I showed him the bottle of Butterfly. I first bought the perfume because I liked the top of the bottle. It was shaped like the folded wings of a butterfly. The perfume was equally delicate, a combination of flowers and almonds and berries. When the car stopped at a red light, I opened the bottle, applied dots of perfume behind my ears and knees, and returned it to the glove compartment. “So what did you want to tell me?”

“About my parents and the party.”

“What about your parents?”

“Mom had asked me weeks ago if you’d want to be involved in all the details before she made the appointment with the party planner. I should’ve talked to you first, but I told her the end of school was a tough time for you. I figured you didn’t need to be making decisions about catering, decorations, music. You know my mother. ”

Another example of Carl saving me from myself, but this time I was relieved. It protected me from Gloria and her exasperating attention to minutiae. The woman could spend days deliberating between white-white and almost-white paint. And another week deciding if the painters should use flat or eggshell as a base. “I know your mother, so I’m eternally grateful you made that decision for me. Don’t worry. I’ll back you up if she mentions it. But I’m sure after you told her about rehab at Brookforest, she's equally as thankful I didn’t help.”

“Probably. But here's the thing.” Carl pulled into the parking lot of the Starbucks around the corner from his parents’ house. But he didn’t ask if I wanted a venti or a grande.

“What are you doing? Why are we stopping here?” My chest hurt. “What
thing
?”

Carl turned off the car engine and stared out the front window. “Your decision to go to Brookforest was a shock. You were so determined to go in on the Fourth, even when you knew my parents already had planned the weekend.”

I needed air. Too much perfume. “Please open the windows. Go on, continue.” Whatever the “thing” was, I predicted it was my fault.

“I called your dad first and told him, you know, about why you thought you drank too much and what you’d decided to do. We talked for a long time.” He ran his hands back and forth along the steering wheel.

I unlocked the seat belt. Everything felt tight. The car, the dress, the shoes, the necklace, the truth. If I could have reached the ropes knotting in my stomach I might have strangled him with them at that moment. “You told your parents. Please tell me you told your parents.”

“Of course, I told my parents.”

Noisy teens spilled out of the car parked next to us. Slammed car doors gave me a reason to raise my voice. “I know a ‘but’ when I don’t hear one. But what?”

“It wasn’t just me. Your dad agreed with me.”

A foot stomped on my chest. “About what?” Loud didn’t matter to me now.

He clutched the steering wheel and looked at me. “I didn’t tell them about the alcohol thing—”