Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [14]
I reached between the chairs where Carl and I sat facing the desk. Carl's hand wrapped itself around mine.
“I don’t need help getting my own purse.” The edginess in my voice startled even me.
“I forgot. You can make your own decisions, right?” Carl said.
Ms. Wattingly walked around her desk, reached for the only Marc Jacobs purse I’ve ever owned in my life, and handed it to the nurse at the office door. This must be what parents felt when they turned their kids over to a babysitter.
“Leah, you’ll be going with Jan; she's the charge nurse today. Now's the time to tell Carl good-bye. He and I will finish talking later.” She stepped out of her office and closed the wood-paneled door.
Carl stood and looked down at me. “Are you even going to stand up to tell me good-bye?”
I didn’t bother with one of my usual snappy comebacks. I was too tired to engage in verbal volleyball. Besides, I couldn’t afford any withdrawals from my almost depleted emotional reserves.
I unfolded myself from the chair and faced Carl. My five-foot-two-inch self never seemed as short as it did then. I lifted my face to meet his gaze.
“I know you don’t understand. I know you’re mad. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
I wasn’t sorry, but I knew it's what he wanted to hear.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, tugged me toward him, squeezing so tightly his shirt buttons mashed into my cheekbone. He smelled like woods and oranges. I circled my arms around him, more to steady myself from falling into him, and closing what little space there was between us.
“I know. I’m sorry too,” he said. “I don’t want to be away from you. I’m going to miss you at night.” He leaned over to kiss me, and his hands traveled under my blouse. Damp and clammy on my bare skin, they moved up my sides. His fingertips grazed my bra.
“Don’t. Not now.” I jerked myself away from him and almost fell sideways into the chair.
He couldn’t have known he’d just provided the strength I needed to place myself into the care of Nurse Jan.
Journal 2
Drinking wasn’t a conscious solution at first. One night, after dinner with friends and too much wine, I lazily offered myself to him.
My reckless advances amazed us both. I could do and say things that otherwise would turn me inside out. I could give him what he wanted. I detached my soul from my body, and watched as my soul retreated to the safety of a hollow space in my heart. Then my body would comply with the orders I issued.
The day after, he’d be grateful, like a child released from a punishment. He’d repeat and replay the acts and conversations of the previous night.
I detested listening to him. I convinced myself someone else said and did those things. But I could see that sacrificing my body to him at night softened his anger and relaxed his frustration during the day. Made it all so much easier to deal with.
I started, then, to make drinking my salvation.
The performance required practice and careful timing. Too sober and I couldn’t dissociate myself from the drama. Too drunk and I’d risk vomiting. I’d swing my leg over the side of the bed and hope one foot on the floor would stop the room from swimming. But too often, it didn’t relieve the heaving, and I wobbled to the toilet to hang my head there. I consoled myself that I’d remember little of it the next day.
None of that mattered to Carl as long as I made sure I returned to bed. It became a complicit arrangement between us. He knew I drank so he could, as he said, finally be a husband. And I knew that he knew.
He didn’t physically abuse me. He didn’t drink too much. He didn’t use drugs. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t have affairs with other women. But I wished he had given in to one of them.
I wished he’d give me a reason to leave. No, really, I wished he’d give the world a reason. Some visible, tangible, obvious reason. At times, I begged him to