Walking on Broken Glass (33 page)

Since the restaurant was only a few blocks away, the ride home was short. Not much time for me to mentally rehearse what I knew I needed to discuss with Carl.
God, I’m counting on you here. I know you and I have had our differences, but AA's getting me back on track. Help me with this conversation. Open Carl's heart.

Carl flipped on the den lights. “Did you want to watch television for a bit before we go to bed?”

I sat on the sofa, forgetting how much I enjoyed feeling the buttery leather on my bare legs. I’d already kicked off my sandals and curled my legs under me. “No television. I want to talk to you, though.”

Carl lowered himself into a chair. He cleared his throat. “Sure. Sure.”

“First, I want you to know that I’m committed to staying sober. I don’t want to be the Leah who left here almost thirty days ago. I’m not saying I’m some entirely new person. But I am trying to get a handle on myself, and my life, and our lives together. And we can do this together, but it's not going to be easy and it's not going to happen right away.”

The creases in his forehead ironed themselves out. He relaxed and leaned back into the chair. “I know this is going to be work. But like I promised, I’m going to help you every step of the way. I’m going to make sure you don’t ever take another drink. You can be sure of that.”

I wrapped my words in softness. “Carl, I want you to support me, and I’m grateful you’re willing to do that. But you don’t need to protect me from myself. It's not your responsibility to keep me away from alcohol. It's mine.”

“I’m just trying to help you the best way I know how,” he said, and the tint of defensiveness colored his voice.

He was right. Saving me from myself was the best way he knew how. In most cases, it was the only way. I remembered Trudie telling me sometimes she had to take things five minutes at a time. This was one of those times. “Really, I appreciate everything you’ve done and want to do. I didn’t think we’d be able to settle everything tonight. But there are two important things I want to talk to you about before we go to sleep.”

I watched his lips curl ever so slightly when he heard the word “sleep.” He crossed his leg, put one hand on his knee. “Yes?”

“This is really difficult for me to say, but I don’t want you to misunderstand or feel like I’m not being honest. I know I’ve been gone, and I know that's been tough for you, you know, as far as us, as far as sex. As far as sex is concerned.”

“Got that right.”

He wasn’t making this easy. “It's going to take me some time to adjust.”

“How much time are we talking about here?”

Anytime you want to jump in God, I’m ready.
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, that's part of what I, we need to work on. “

“Let me make sure I understand this. You’re telling me that we’re not going to have sex tonight. Correct?”

“Yes, that's what I’m telling you. Part of it anyway.”

“And the other part is you don’t know when you’ll feel like having sex. Is that correct?”

“It's not so much a ‘feel like.’ It's more complicated than that. But as far as the when, you’re right. I don’t know exactly when. I’m not saying never. I’m asking … no, I’m telling you that I need time.”

“Great. So what am I supposed to do? I’ve already waited a month. Now you’re telling me you have no idea when you’ll be ready to be my wife again. Nice. Well, let me have it. What's the other thing?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Looking at Carl was like watching a space shuttle launch. Control, shaking, violent shaking, combustion, blast off. All I could do was wait for him to settle into his orbit.

“I’m speechless. Absolutely speechless.”

Not a good time to point out that he obviously wasn’t if he was speaking. I held onto my bare feet. They were clammy or maybe that was my hand.

“You’re kidding,” he said. “No. You’re not kidding. This is crazy. Lunatic. What were you thinking?”

“Um, I didn’t get pregnant by myself.”

“Don’t get smart with me right now. This is a shock, an absolute shock. Wait. When did you find out?”

“Last week. After I had to—”

“One week. So you knew about this before you left rehab. And you kept it a secret from me?”

Rage moved to sonic levels. “I was afraid you’d want me to sign out early. I didn’t want to fight with you about it, and I wanted to finish the program. Get as much time working on me as I could. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Gee. I think I heard those words in this same room about a month ago. You’re sorry. I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry you lied to me. How ironic. You had the nerve to jump all over me for not telling my parents, and then you turn around and lie. Do you really think you’re in any shape to be a mother? You can’t even take care of yourself yet. And now you’re telling me you’re going to take care of a child?”

I recoiled. “Hold on. Since when have I not been a good mother? Don’t go there. We really don’t want to have that fight now.”

He calmed down. Radically. He scared me when he was this calm. That usually signaled he was going for the final emotional blow. “Well, since you did find out this news while you were in rehab, did all those counselors and doctors we paid all that money for help you in your research?”

“Research? What research?”

“Fetal alcohol syndrome. That research.”

I
slept in my own bed for the first time in a month.

Carl slept on the sofa.

In one way, a perfect end to a not-so-perfect day. In a million other ways, a perfect disaster.

After Carl's comment about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, I calmly walked out of the den and into the bedroom and not so calmly slammed the door behind me. I flung the decorative round pillows, square pillows, and sausage-shaped pillows on the floor. Like so many nights before in this same bed, I climbed in and slid under the covers without bothering to change my clothes. A white eyelet sundress was close enough to sleepwear that night.

After a while of convulsing in tears, I forced myself out of bed. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and changed into one of my long sleeveless nightgowns. Long, just in case Carl decided to leave the den and sleep in our bed. And then there was the ceremonial taking off of the watch. Years ago, I’d mentioned if anyone ever had a notion to buy me a Rolex, not to bother unless it had emeralds and diamonds in the bezel. I’m not sure at what point in which wine bottle I may have made that announcement. Kudos to Carl for remembering, but what I thought was sarcasm, he took as a veiled request. Then again, I hadn’t purged myself of all my shallowness because it was stunning, and I really did want to keep it.

I placed it back in the white box for tonight.

Good night, watch. Good night, closet. Good night, bathroom. Good night, my very own bed. Good night, Carl, sleeping in the den.

Morning tiptoed in so quietly, I didn’t realize it arrived. Even the sun seemed less obnoxious. No Theresa snoring, burping, or gassing. A few twittering bluebirds, and I’d feel like I was on the set of a Disney movie.

Carl's pillow was as plumped up as it’d been last night. No tucked-in swaddling. I inched across the empty space to the other side of the bed to see if he’d left a note. No.

What time was it anyway?

My sassy new Rolex didn’t have legs, so if I wanted the time, I had to walk into the bathroom to find it. I forced myself to roll out of bed. I passed the framed mirror and saw I had a crease from my right eyebrow to my chin. Lovely. Must have bunched up the sheets again. Where did the white box go? A sliver of panic sliced through me. I rubbed my eyes to clear the gunk and looked again. The whole length of the counter. Not there. I know it was there. I was sober. I clearly remembered this. I looked in the mirror. Well, Leah, there's one for you. Being sober meant clarity. Only this morning my clarity resulted in confusion. Uh-oh. Maybe Carl decided to return it.

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.