Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [10]
“How dare you! How dare you!” I summoned a voice from places in my soul I’d buried a lifetime ago. My arms cradled the pink bag. I fell to my knees. I wanted to suffocate myself in the quilted softness. Its emptiness screamed of what was, what could have been.
If I could have truly prayed again, this would’ve been the time.
When Carl pushed past me, he left behind the rank bitterness steaming from his skin. I despised him at that moment. It was the strongest emotion I’d felt toward him in a long time.
I curled into a ball on the closet floor with the diaper bag as my pillow. I told myself I’d drink the pain away later. My going-away present to myself.
After I woke up from my closet sleep, I returned Alyssa's bag to the safety of the wicker hamper where we’d stored the too few belongings of her too brief life.
Another night of sleeping in my clothes. A sour slime coated the inside of my mouth and oozed its way to my stomach with each swallow. I ached to throw up, but my body wouldn’t participate. Too far away from my bathroom to shove my finger down my throat, I sat on the floor, leaned against the wall, and willed my neck to support the weight of my head. The closet that cocooned me last night now folded in on me. Each breath mixed a cocktail of sadness, regret, disappointment, and anger.
I unwound myself and shuffled to the kitchen. I found Carl, asleep on the sofa, his head propped on the rolled arm. His legs tangled the crimson chenille throw I spent ten minutes a day arranging to look like it’d been carelessly tossed. Reassured by his crackling snores that he would stay asleep, I didn’t disturb him on the way to my last rewards of orange juice and vodka.
5
Molly leaned against my closet doorframe and surveyed my options. She’d volunteered to help me skim my wardrobe for the appropriate alcoholic-in-recovery attire.
I didn’t tell her about the emotional earthquake a few days ago. Carl and I didn’t even mention it to one another. The energy of that night diluted itself in the tedium of the next day. Since that night, we occupied the same space, but we hovered in different orbits. It worked for now.
And now I’m cross-legged on the closet floor, surrounded by mismatched shoes and uneven stacks of wearables and not-on-your-lifes.
We spent hours coordinating, eliminating, and parading ourselves in one after another of my generally disastrous fashions. My mother-in-law had spirited my maternity clothes away a long time ago. All that remained were my before, during, and after weight loss sizes, ranging from oh-my-gosh to oh-I-just-wish.
“So the good news is you can wash clothes there. The bad news is you’ll be the one doing the washing. Do you think they’ll let you schlep around in your jammies? Not the boxers, of course, but …” Molly stopped mid-sentence, an incredibly annoying tendency, which usually signaled she was talking to herself.
“I doubt many of the patients have a devoted Vogue subscriber packing for them. I bet the suitcase of choice is a grocery bag or one of those nifty purple velvet pouches that make you feel better for overspending on Crown Royal.”
I debated telling Molly about my stash of those bags. I’d shoved them into an empty Kotex box. I knew Carl would never have a reason to explore the contents of any box labeled maximum overnight protection, extra length with wings, and delicately scented. I just couldn’t bring myself to ditch them; it seemed like such a waste. Especially with those gold-roped tassels. I decided not to tell Molly. Once I’m long-term sober, I might find some righteous use for those little bags.
We reviewed the list of contraband items. Not allowed at any time: aerosol cans, mouthwashes with alcohol, nail polish, nail polish remover, needles, tacks, pins, staplers, staples, food, matches, perfume bottles, razor blades, glue, metal cans.
I’ll walk around an unshaved, unscented, halitosis-impaired, unpolished, and unmani/pedicured nightmare. How will we tolerate each other?
Also included on the list as not appropriate