Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [107]
Six steps back.
Just when I rejoiced about some progress in our marriage, the wheels not only stopped turning, they peeled out in reverse.
We both had appointments with Melinda the next day, one after the other. Our couple meeting had been scheduled for Friday, and we had reading homework I hadn’t started. Carl hadn’t bothered to share his assignment, even though I was sure we wouldn’t be cheating if we knew. My passages were The Virtuous Wife of Proverbs 31, and something from Song of Solomon. I started with the outstanding wife of the Bible universe, but about six lines in, I felt sick. Not pregnant sick. The “how am I ever going to measure up to this woman” kind of sick. I wanted a nap just reading about what this woman accomplished. Had I leaped too quickly? Maybe Melinda wasn’t the match for us. I closed my Bible and opted for the nap. Maybe after rest—which, hey, AA said we needed to take care of ourselves—I’d be more open to Mrs. Goody Twenty Shoes.
“Amazing Grace,” my new ringtone, woke me. Carl told me Friday's appointment might be a problem because his father scheduled meetings with contractors.
“What came first on the appointment schedule? Melinda or the contractor?” Since dinner disaster night, Carl and I have seen his parents on only two occasions: once for a weekend breakfast and the other time we stopped by their house so Carl could sign paperwork for an insurance policy. They were adequately attentive, but with the emotional enthusiasm of people forced to watch home movies of your cats or the four-hundred-ninety-two photos of your vacation in the Smokies. They were pleased about the baby, but probably not so much about the baby's mother.
“Why?” he asked. “You think there's a conspiracy? There isn’t.”
“Couldn’t you reschedule the appointment with the contractor?” I turned on my back and contemplated the dust edging the fan blades. How long had that been there? Good reason to keep a fan on, especially if company's here … like the in-laws.
Just because you choose to hide it or not see it, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
It's dust on a fan blade, God.
Have you forgotten, “The Lord formed man of the dust of the ground?”
“Leah, did you hear a word I said?”
Yes, God .
“No, I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I’d asked if you could reschedule with Melinda. Call me back later, and let me know.”
“For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.”
“I rescheduled a business meeting so we could be here,” Carl said as he tapped the arm of the barrel chair. “That means we have to leave here exactly at one o’clock.”
He faced me, but he swiveled his conversation to both Melinda and me. I looked at her.
She sat, impassive, and twirled a yellow highlighter between her hands. “Fine. Who's going to be the timekeeper?”
“Me,” Carl said. “I’ll do it. That way I can be sure we won’t go over.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked.
After several more volleys across this net of hostility between us, Melinda said, “To your corners. Remind me, why did the two of you come here? Leah, you start. Tell Carl the first issue on your list. Then, Carl, you tell her the first issue on your list. Let's start there.”
“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