Walking on Broken Glass (26 page)

I’d forgotten Sunday mornings were generally quiet since check-in wasn’t until noon. Jan told me last night Cathryn would be working, so I figured it’d just be us girls. I’d be lazy and sloppy until lunch. I didn’t bother changing out of the camisole and plaid boxers I’d fallen asleep wearing.

I wandered to the front, so busy digging crud out of my eyes that I bumped smack into Designer Drugs woman in the hall. “Omph” met “Whoa. Oops.” Followed by the “flump, flump, flump” of magazines meeting the floor.

“So sorry,” I said.

“S’okay. I should know better than to read and walk at the same time.” She bent to pick up the magazines.

“Wait, let me help.” I handed her the last two. “Oh, these are the ones Jan brought in last night.” V
ogue, Cosmo, Vanity Fair, Newsweek
, and
Psychology Today
. An eclectic collection. Had Designer Drugs asked for these?

“I didn’t realize you were here. I thought you left on a pass,” she said.

“I did leave. I came back. Long story. I didn’t know you were here either.” After my turkey sandwich, coleslaw, and chips dinner last night, I’d crashed in my room.

“Oh, um, I didn’t have a pass this weekend. I could have, but my husband was out of town, so it didn’t seem to matter.” She passed her hand under her nose, a flutter of a movement.

I pretended not to notice. So generous of me as I stood there with morning mouth, clothes so wrinkled I looked like I rolled down a hill, red slipper socks, and eye gunk I’d wiped on my boxers. Meanwhile, she didn’t stand, she posed, like a woman who felt comfortable in her skin. Her white linen nightshirt fell to her knees. She was prettier plain-faced than she was with make-up.

“I didn’t realize you were married,” I said. Oh, dumb me. Why would I realize that? I hadn’t bothered to utter a syllable to her since she arrived. I didn’t even know her name. Shame on me. Maybe there was a step for this I hadn’t reached yet.

She shifted the magazines. “Do you mind walking with me so I can leave these in my room?”

“No problem.” It wasn’t until we’d walked past my room that I realized she shared a room with Annie. Why had I assumed she had a private room? “So, how's Annie for a roommate?”

“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.

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 enthusiastic 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?”