Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [103]
“Did you get permission to—” Carl was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, so he had to know bacon was splattering demon grease everywhere.
“How was your walk?” Carl closed the paper and folded it in half.
“Nice. Hot. But it was good to talk to Molly.” I asked Dad to fix me two eggs over easy. “So what time did you come home?”
“Probably right after you left for your walk,” he said.
“What? This morning?”
“We were at the club later than I thought we’d be. Didn’t want to wake you up, so I just went home with my parents. My father dropped me off on the way to his game.”
“Here they are, honey. Eat while they’re hot,” Dad said, and slid the plate with two fried eggs and wheat bread in front of me.
“That's so considerate of you, caring about not waking me up.” I broke the white tops and dipped my bread in the eggs.
“Don’t be like that. You know how I feel about your sarcasm,” he said, lowering his voice.
“And you know how I feel about you lying to your parents and to me, but you did that … twice.”
“Do you have to be so loud? We can talk about this later.” He looked at my dad and back at me.
We didn’t talk about it later, and I was the one who regretted it. I didn’t get too many answers from Carl because Dad had his own agenda. He heard us, of course, and told me I was “overreacting.”
“How did I do that? I’m not the one who sold me out.”
“Carl, she's right. You should have been honest with your parents, especially your dad, talked to him man to man. He could have told your mother. Heck, you could have just talked to her, if you didn’t want to talk to both of them. One could have told the other.”
Carl nodded. “I know. I know.”
“And Leah, all I’m saying is maybe, you know, you’re better now. Maybe you could have a drink every once in a while now that you know what to do. Moderation, isn’t that what they say?”
“It doesn’t work like that. Alcoholism isn’t cured. I’ll always be an alcoholic.”
Dad looked wounded. “Now, honey, don’t say that. You don’t know … ”
“No, Dad. I do know. I can’t drink like other people. I never did, I never will. But I’m a recovering alcoholic now. That's what matters. If I was suicidal, would you say I could shoot myself every now and then?”
“Now, baby, we both know that would be just stupid.”
“Exactly. It would be just as stupid for me to drink. It can kill me too. I just take it one day at a time.”
“I’m glad it's working for you. I’m glad. Besides, you have to take care of yourself. You’ve got that baby to think about. How about you, Carl? Awfully quiet, there.”
“Great, Bob. I’m great.” He put his coffee cup in the sink and walked outside.
42
As I had promised Rebecca, on the way home from taking my father to the airport, I brought up the idea of marriage counseling. The good that came out of the Great Dinner Disaster was that I used it as an opportunity to guilt Carl into agreeing to an appointment. Carl used counseling as an opportunity for penance. We were even.
Our first session with Melinda was the getting to know one another, let's make sure we’re comfortable introduction. After we’d arrived at her office, an unassuming cotton candy pink wood-framed house in an older section of the city, Bonnie, her receptionist, handed a blue clipboard to Carl and a pink one to me. “I know, sexist. Please fill these forms out, and no cheating, kids.” She smiled and sat back at her desk.
A few pages of the usual medical information requests, but other pages asked about our dreams and goals, strengths and weaknesses of ourselves, our spouse, our relationship, our opinions about money, education, sex, families, children. We finished within a few minutes of one another and handed them over to Bonnie. She took them into Melinda's office.
Carl and I sat next to one another like strangers on a bus. Carl picked up a Sports Illustrated. So reminiscent of Annie, who I’d not seen in weeks. I said a quick prayer for her and for everyone at Brookforest that I’d probably never see again. All