Any Woman's Blues_ A Novel of Obsession - Erica Jong [38]
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say to Emmie.
“Soon,” says Emmie.
“After all my suicide attempts,” says Fleur, “I discovered that I could make my little girl’s death mean something only by staying on after her and giving my life to the service of other girls. And I have found in this work an enduring joy—and pain—that has transformed everything I thought I knew before. I don’t know why God chose to send me such a bitter lesson, but perhaps I drew it to myself with my extreme stubbornness. For I believe that we ourselves fashion our lessons according to our own needs.”
Stunned silence greets her speech. Then, slowly, the room begins to come to life. One by one, people stand up and applaud and hug Fleur.
There is a five-minute recess for coffee before the sharing begins.
“Are all the meetings like this?” I whisper.
Emmie laughs. “None are. This one was sent especially for you. The Program is like Mary Poppins’s elixir: it becomes the specific medicine for whatever ails you. You asked for a cure for sex addiction? You got it.”
“The last thing I want is to be cured,” I say.
“I know,” says Emmie. “Fighting being cured is the first step in being cured.”
“Do I have to talk?”
“Only if you want to feel better.”
During most of the sharing, I sniffle and study the steps.
7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
At the end, after a basket is passed and just before the meeting is adjourned, Fleur calls on me.
“The lady with the red hair,” she says, pointing at me.
I look at Emmie for guidance. Perhaps the speaker is really calling on her.
She shrugs.
“I’m Leila,” I say. “I haven’t had a drink in an hour.”
“Welcome,” says Fleur. “It works if you work it.” Nearly everyone in the room turns and begins to clap for me, as if I were a heroine.
After the meeting, people linger over coffee and cookies. Several women come up to me, proffering phone numbers. I take all the little slips of paper and tuck them into my Filofax, planning to throw them away when I get home. If I take them, at least I can get out of here.
Driving me back to my house in her old silver Volvo station wagon, Emmie says, “Do you know I didn’t speak at all at meetings for the first year? I just sat in the back and lurked.”
“I had to say something. I don’t even know why. Most of the time, I wasn’t listening. I was staring at ‘The Twelve Steps’ and thinking how much they resemble ‘The Rules of Love.’ ”
“What are ‘The Rules of Love’?”
“‘The Rules of Love’ of the Provençal poets are nothing less than a complete codification of love. They were written centuries ago. And nothing whatsoever has changed.”
“So what did you think of the meeting?” asks Emmie.
“Boring,” I say. “There should be a stronger word: boringhissimo.”
“I know what you mean. Some meetings seem so boring you think you could die. And the smoke gets to you. And the platitudes—an attitude of platitude, I call it. And yet it works. As they say, it works if you work it. I don’t even know why it works. Grace, I guess.”
“How long have you been doing this, Emmie? And why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“You never asked.”
“But you could have told me.”