Walking on Broken Glass (40 page)

“My first one is I want to talk about being sober and staying sober and who I’m trying to be.”

“That's three. Right, Melinda?” Carl definitely wanted to tattle.

“No, Carl, that's just it. If we’d talk about number one, you’d see why it's not one, two, and three. Right, Melinda?”

“Go, Carl,” Melinda said. “And would you two just stick to the plan.”

“My first one is sex,” he said. “I don’t understand why you’ve been home so long, and the most we do is make out like we’re in, what, high school? And then there's your obsession with these AA meetings.”

I wanted to focus on sobriety. He wanted to focus on sex.

At least we shared this truth:

The more we had of one, the less we wanted of the other.

Carl was leaving the next day to open the Pine Knoll office, six hours away from our house. His parents rented a nearby apartment, so he planned to live there during the week and come home weekends. They’d told Carl I could stay there with him, but after our contentious sessions, Melinda suggested we give one another a two-week “timeout.” In my last one-on-one, Melinda explained I needed to allow Carl time to “catch up” in the way I’d had time. “And don’t think I’m saying you’re at the finish line,” she reminded me.

I’d decided to use part of the two weeks to visit my father and Peter, who lately seemed to be involved in their own emotional-tug-of-war. Carl dropped me off at the airport on his way to Pine Knoll. The awkward quiet settled on us much like the dust on the fan: layers of it, months, years of bits of life, accumulated. We didn’t realize how much had built up on the fan until it stopped and forced us to see what was there. Melinda handed us the tools, but the business of cleaning hurt. After every session, she’d pray with us, and I’d want to reach for Carl's hand. I wanted my desire for him to find God and for us to find a church home to burn through to him. On Sundays, I’d visit a church, he’d visit the golf course, and we’d both visit a restaurant. So far, I hadn’t found a place to worship God, and Carl hadn’t found a God to worship.

This, too, will pass.

Carl pulled into the line for airline drop-offs. “Did you remember to bring cash?”

“Got the debit card,” I said. “I’m good. Oh, I decided to rent a car while I’m there, so I won’t have to depend on Dad or Peter to taxi me around.”

“When did you decide to do that? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I called yesterday for the reservation. With trying to pack for both of us, arrange Merry Maids, postpone the newspaper and the mail, and leave a check for the lawn-care service, I honestly didn’t think about it until we drove past the rental car sign. It's not like I’d keep it a secret; it's on the credit card.”

I shoved my sunglasses up as a headband and looked at Carl. I wanted him to see my eyes, to see the new Leah, who had made the responsible decision and thought ahead to make reservations. Not the old Leah whose entire month's check would hang in her closet, with the price tags cut off. He’d ask, “Is that new?” That Leah would answer, “No, silly. I’ve had this. You just don’t remember seeing it on me.”

“I would have appreciated if you would have mentioned it to me first. You know I hate surprises on the credit card. Did you ask Dr. Nolan about driving? You’re not driving in the city, are you? Since Katrina, you know it's not safe.”

We coasted to the Southwest Airlines zone. He parked and hopped out to roll my baggage to the Sky Cap. I waited for him at the curb. “I didn’t ask Dr. Nolan because I still have four months to go. I’m not going to drive in the city alone. I promise.”

He lifted the sunglasses off my head and handed them to me. He moved my floppy bangs aside; his hands dusted my forehead with tenderness. Carl's eyes traced the outline of my face like he was searching for something he could recognize. He placed a hand against my cheek and said, “You know I love you, don’t you?” I nodded.

“I just worry about you when you’re not with me. I don’t want anything to happen to you. That's why I ask and say the things I do. I care about you.” He kissed me on my forehead and hurried to the car.

Carl bathed his words in sincerity, and I wanted to honor what he’d expressed as love. But as I pulled my bags up and handed my tickets over, I felt as if the gift he’d tried to give me was one size too small.

I
’m relaxed now,” I said to Peter. “Go ahead. Hit me with it. I know that's why I’m here. Spill.”

Four hours after Carl dropped me off at the airport, I sat in my brother's den with my feet propped on his ottoman to keep the rest of my body from disappearing into his sofa. He walked in from the kitchen, handed me a water bottle, and sat in a deep-chocolate leather armchair.

“Sorry. I’m rude,” I apologized. “Love the house, love the furniture. Did you pick one of everything in Pottery Barn or did they have a special on buying an entire house of furniture?”

“That's not very nice,” he said. “I thought you’d feel right at home. I forgot. You’re a decorator snob now.”

We both laughed, and I remembered the luxury of being with someone who knew your history, someone who didn’t need a map of your bumps and bruises, someone who could climb up into memories with you.

Peter and Dad had stayed with Carl and me while Hurricane Katrina “remodeled” New Orleans. Dad wanted to return home ten minutes after the last winds died down. Almost two weeks later, they left. Dad lived on the Northshore of the city, over one hundred feet above sea level. Two shutters were in the front garden, four of his neighbor's trees had leveled his wood fence, and every tree in a ten-mile area had wept needles and branches into his yard. Peter, on the other hand, found a stray car in his kitchen, an assortment of dead animals, and everything else ruined. He salvaged his sanity, sold the remnants, and started over. He moved to the same area as Dad, far enough away that Dad couldn’t wander over, but close enough to breed contempt.

“I can’t believe Dad spent all that time with you and didn’t tell you about Dani.”

I tucked one of the throw pillows behind my lower back. Pregnancy back aches already. “Dani? I thought you said he was dating? He's … wait a minute. He's dating a man?”

“D-a-n-i. That kind of Dani.”

“We didn’t exactly have the world's best weekend. I’m sure Dad drowned in all the drama. You know how he adores being involved in any confrontation,” I said. “Are we eating real food anytime soon? This baby and I will pour gravy over that media suite soon and serve it with rice.”

“Come on,” he sighed, but playfully. “I now have to take care of big baby and little baby.”

“Don’t be a martyr. Red is not a color you wear well.” I poked him as we headed out the front door. “Take me anywhere I can feast on a fried shrimp po-boy.”

Peter drove along the lake front where the serpentine seawall edged the expanse of Lake Pontchartrain. On the right the street split a wide expanse of grass and oaks in varying stages of regrowth and the edges of neighborhoods on the left. The stores facing the lake were like the end-cap displays of a grocery: seafood restaurants from formal to frumpy, coffeehouses, bistros, and an assortment of buildings between their before and after photos.

Peter parked near Sissy's, a newish seafood restaurant, meaning the owners hang out and still care what the customers think. Since it was early evening and the old-fashioned fans on stands on the deck stirred the warm air, we ate outside. I had a “drunk moment” passing the long, shining brass-topped bar, dozens of glasses like so many empty mouths to be fed, hanging over it. I made myself not think of that first sip of beer and followed Peter to our table.

The issue for my brother wasn’t that our father dated; it was the woman he’d chosen to date. Dani met Dad three months ago. Dani's good friend waitressed at the restaurant where my parents and a group of friends ate dinner every month. After Mom died, Dad continued to eat with his friends. On one of those nights Dani “suddenly” happened to show up.

“What can I get y’all to drink?” Our server, Nick, placed two sets of silverware rolled in napkins on the table. “Our evening specials are Apple Martinis—”

Peter interrupted. “Just two unsweet iced teas. Heavy on the lemons.”

Was it my imagination that the servers seemed disappointed when no one ordered a drink? Or was that alcoholic thinking?

I thought everyone paid attention to how many times they drank or when everyone postponed tasks because what was the point, really, to make the bed when it would just get messed up later?

One of the advantages of hanging around other alcoholics was the “aha” moments when you’d hear someone's story and know being afraid to check the mailbox is alcoholic brain. My brain had to dry out to realize it was wet.

I doubt Nick or Peter thought about iced tea as much as I did.

“So, there was Dani. You know, Dad,” Peter said. “He’d talk to a lawn chair, and that's when he's sober. I’m sure he’d had a drink or four by the time he met her. She was probably flattered he was so attentive. She had two ears. That was enough for him.”

“I don’t get why the two of you aren’t talking,” I said, temporarily distracted by the two seafood platters topped off with fried softshell crabs delivered to the next table.

“We’ll order appetizers. Are you listening?” Peter continued. “Dad called and asked me to help move one of his friends. When he said the place was his and the friend was Dani, I decided it was time to visit.”

Peter said he saw an American Express bill on the coffee table, and he “happened” to see over five hundred dollars of it was from four restaurants. Peter confronted Dad, who said where he ate, with whom, and how much money he spent was none of Peter's business.

“Basically, that was the end of that. We haven’t spoken since then. And she's moving in this week.”

The waiter set my plate down. I was in boiled shrimp heaven.

“And you want me to play peacemaker?” I asked between peeling, dipping, and eating.

“If you could play sense-maker that would be enough. I’m not happy that Dad and I aren’t talking. But I know this woman is bad news. This is going to end badly. If he could just see that and be smart about it, then I’d be able to live with not talking to him. At least then I’d know he's fine, and he's doing what he needs to do to protect himself.”

“How is this supposed to happen? Plan an intervention? We go to his house, tie him to a chair, stuff a handkerchief in his mouth? There's always an involuntary admission to the psych floor.”

“How about something simple—like lunch? Did you already forget it's all about the food?”

I looked at the shrimp po-boy Nick just dropped off. “Nope. Haven’t forgotten.”

“When I heard you were pregnant, I was excited—for myself. I loved being Alyssa's uncle. Selfish, but I didn’t remember if I’d ever told you that. She changed my life too. I think she was the first newborn baby I’d ever held for 6.2 minutes that day.” Peter knew I would laugh about the timed baby-holding. The first grandchild and everyone jockeyed for arm rights. We had a button made for Mom, “I’m the Grandmother. Back off. I’m always next.”

“I don’t remember either. If you did, I needed to hear it again. Some days I’m so afraid, and I almost can’t stop the Alyssa tape. I repeat the Serenity Prayer until I fall asleep. I know this baby is a gift, especially because of the circumstances. God gave me another reason to stay sober, another reason to stay strong, to fight. He knew I might not do it for me. But I’ll stay sober and fight for this baby with every ounce of strength I have.”