Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [16]
The room, of course, opened to the center station, so we didn’t have to go far. But now my panic had evolved into self-pity. I had to acclimate myself to this utilitarian space that begged for an HGTV makeover. Plus, the gray haze of stale cigarette smoke remained suspended in the room. I’d need an oxygen mask to sit in it for more than five minutes.
My feet parked themselves at the threshold and refused to move in the direction of Jan's outstretched arm. “Is there a no-smoking room? And where are the patients? Am I the token alcoholic for the month?” With each syllable my voice rose, despite Jan's reassuring pats on my shoulder.
A surge of craving. I wanted to go home. Not home, really, as in the two-story, blackmail-in-waiting Tudor, our wedding gift from Carl's parents, Landon and Gloria. Home was that place wine or gin could bring me to. The place where I didn’t have to feel. Where I could be someplace without really ever leaving where I was. Numbness, the friend I relied on, wasn’t invited to this place. Party's over.
I scratched the top of my left hand with my right so vigorously that snail-sized red welts formed. Carl hated when I did that. I did that a lot.
Jan's cool, tapered fingers softly pressed my hand. “Stop. You’re about to draw blood.” She reached around with her left arm and gently hugged me, all the while holding my hand still.
For the first time I noticed we were about the same height, but she seemed fragile and light. She probably bought shoes, maybe even her clothes, in the tween department. Short dark-brown layers framed her face—a cut not too many women since Audrey Hepburn could pull off, but Jan did and did it well. Without the black-framed oval glasses she wore, she’d look like a twelve-year-old.
Her brown eyes scanned me. Were they hooked up to a monitor somewhere?
She gestured in the direction of a sofa. “Let's sit. Are you hungry? I can order a tray for you or you can get ice cream. We keep it stocked here on the floor. What do you want?”
Given a choice between nutrition and ice cream? What a place: legitimate ice cream. It's not gin, but it qualified as comfort food. Two Nutty Buddy cones later, I learned I had arrived at the beginning of the month when most new patients checked in and old ones checked out. The ones in between were on weekend leave and due back in less than an hour. All of the patients on the floor smoked. I could ask for a time when the room could be a no-smoking place, an hour or so during the day, Jan told me, but I figured that would have been a quick trip to Nerdville and wouldn’t win me the patient of the month award. Not a good way to start.
Matthew walked over. “You just earned your badge from the suitcase inspection department. Jan's going to show you to your room. We’ll give you some time to settle in, then we’ll go over the game plan for the next seventy-two hours, okay?”
We all understood my “okayness” didn’t really matter. But I figured it would be dumb to be rude to the person who could be my ice cream supplier for the duration of my stay. Jan and I peeled ourselves off the couch, and she led the way to the room.
Welcome to drabness. Two twin beds with navy blue corded bedspreads separated by a white nightstand with a lamp. A standard, hospital-sized closet and a bathroom with questionable lighting. The one six-drawer dresser squatted across from the beds. A student-sized desk with a small lamp perched on its corner faced the only window.
My suitcases and purse waited on the bed—the one closest to the bathroom. One plus for early arrival.
“Your roommate's due to arrive tomorrow, so you’ll have the space