Walking on Broken Glass (27 page)

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.”

“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.”

“That's part of the seduction of alcohol. Or drugs, food, sex. Anything you use to feel numb. Your disease convinces you it took care of the pain while you were drinking, drugging, eating, having sex. But none of it dies a natural death. It's just suspended, like in cryogenics. So you stop drinking and things start thawing. You start feeling.”

“Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life feeling every little thing that happens? How do people live like that?” Hysteria hijacked my voice.

“Addiction tricks us into thinking we can pick and choose what we feel. We can’t. Real life means feeling. Life's supposed to have an edge. If it didn’t, how would you know if you were falling off?”

I hung my snotty-nosed, runny-eyed head over the back of the chair. “I hate all this. I want recess. Is there ever recess? I knew I missed first grade.”

“Let's get back to the feeling. When Carl lied to his parents about why you’re here, now that felt like something, didn’t it?”

“Betrayal. That's what it felt like. He sold me out for his parents.”

“Is that the first time he's ever done that? Sold you out?”

“Well, yes. I guess. I mean it's never been an issue before. Carl's whole family operates in a universe I’ve never been a part of—socially or financially. Since we’ve been married there have been times I’ve been ticked because of their demands … go here, be there, dress like this … but I knew Carl wanted to make them happy. So if I had to go to an afternoon tea with blue-haired ladies, no biggie. Sometimes the vacations drove me crazy. Ski lodge, lake house. Under their roof 24/7. Carl's mom obsessing about lettuce. But they’re his parents. He's all they have.”

“Was your parents’ relationship like yours?”

I snorted. “Not quite. My dad did whatever he could to keep my mom happy. At least it seemed that way to me growing up. They made sure I did what I was supposed to do and kept the whining to a minimum. If I complained, my father would give me the ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’ speech. The one about being grateful for what you have. Oh, and there was also ‘God doesn’t like ugly.’ That one covered my sassy self.”

“So, they must have been proud of the woman you became.”

“I guess. Most of my life I just did what they wanted me to do. I’d get wild ideas about stuff—like wanting to be a cheerleader or learning how to play the piano—and we’d have these family meetings. Cheerleader was definitely out. They made me realize I had no chance. They gave in on the piano lessons. But I didn’t always practice, and eventually I quit. Unfortunately, they’d remind me about that fiasco when I had some other bright idea.” I stopped to blow my nose again.