Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [13]
We managed to enter the lobby without injury to self or spouse. The receptionist led us to a waiting room—a meat-locker cold waiting room, which explained the butcher-wear of the staff. Shivering in my mint-blue polished cotton skirt and white linen blouse, I hoped I’d remember to ask Molly to bring my denim jacket or a hoodie.
Carl didn’t speak. We sat like two strangers who stared at the wall, expecting the movie to begin anytime. I reached into my purse for my cell phone so I could send a quick text message to Molly. Before I could find it the Admissions Counselor walked over to escort us to her office. Ms. Antoinette Wattingly could have doubled as Oprah's sister, her taller sister. Right away, I’m impressed by a woman who can pull off a pair of Tory Burch leopard suede ballet flats. Well-paid staff, maybe? Fortunately, Carl's designer shoe radar was incapacitated. But not his suspicion radar. If he knew what those little cuties cost, Ms. Wattingly and her leopard ballet flats would be dashing out the doors after us.
Once the intake process started, Carl stopped cooperating. He informed Ms. Wattingly that drinking every afternoon and on weekends couldn’t be indicative of alcoholism or else half the civilized world would be lining up for treatment.
“Well, perhaps they should be, Mr. Thornton. Now if you’d look over and sign these papers.” She slid the insurance release papers across her polished walnut desk. “Leah came to us. We do not solicit clients. Obviously, your wife thinks that her consumption of alcohol is problematic.”
Carl signed the papers, then growled, “What's problematic is my wife being gone for thirty days, my life undergoing an upheaval, and my money funding this place.”
The disgust in his voice injected itself into my spine. My body reacted with the familiar stillness that protected me most nights. Even Ms. Wattingly shifted. Both of us now sat straight-backed in the overstuffed chairs. She stared at Carl. I stared over Carl's head into my future.
“Your wife's been gone a lot longer than the thirty days she's about to be away from you. She's just realizing this and maybe you will, too, once you’re coming to family sessions.”
The industrial stapler jawed its way through the paperwork and cracked the immense silence that swallowed her office. I avoided eye contact with Carl. In fact, I wanted to avoid any contact with him. I cheered Ms. Wattingly on, relieved to allow her to be my voice.
“What family sessions? And how many of these am I supposed to attend?” Carl shot me that look that screamed, “Oh, one more surprise?”
I shrugged. I didn’t ask for a syllabus. I just showed up for the course. But right now, my anxiety and I wanted a hall pass. Maybe they could keep Carl, and I could leave.
“Mr. Thornton, I realize this is difficult for you. You didn’t want this, but here you are. Your wife is not running from a problem. In fact, she's running straight into it, by choice. Brookforest does not want repeat business. Without family support, Leah may not stay sober.”
“So now it's my job to keep her sober?” Carl barked.
The “her” slapped my dignity in its face. I crossed my legs and turned to Carl, “Please don’t talk about me as if I’m not even here.”
His jaw jutted forward in that way it always did before he launched into one of his tirades.
Ms. Wattingly tapped her pen on the desk. I wondered if she wanted to tap Carl, hard, right on the top of his shaved head. “You know, maybe it's time for Leah to finish her intake on the floor with the nurse. In the meantime Mr. Thornton, I’ll have our Family Services Coordinator give you an overview of your involvement for the next month.”
She rolled her chair back and then stood behind her desk as