Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [18]
A cleaner version of me emerged from the bathroom and found Jan had already cleaned and somehow fumigated the room. Jan's eyes snapped to meet mine. She stared for an instant, but long enough to make me squirm. Was it my hair? Dried naturally, it frizzed and curled around my ears, like poodle hair on steroids. I’d scrubbed my body raw, removed every remnant of makeup, and slipped into a clean outfit.
“I’m so sorry,” I said and looked around for some way to help. “I would’ve helped you clean up.” Already I needed someone to clean up after me. Carl's voice saying, “can’t take care of yourself,” pulsated through my veins and adjusted to the rhythm of my heart. Every beat reminded me of my irresponsibility. What if he was right? “I’m really embarrassed,” I said.
“Leah, most symptoms of alcohol withdrawal happen within seventy-two hours after that last drink. From what I’ve read on your intake chart, you were in mid-stage dependency. For the next two or three days you’ll probably feel shaky, tired, have killer headaches and nausea and vomiting,” she said.
“Or you may not.” Jan shrugged her shoulders, pulled the cord to close the laundry bag, and shoved it into a basket that she had brought in after finding me on the floor. “But it's not unusual for patients to not want to eat or sleep. Sometimes they feel a roller coaster of emotions from being really irritated to being really excited.”
“I can’t wait. And the good news is?” Pouty sarcasm tinged the question. I’m already wearing Day 2's outfit on Day 1. Molly and I definitely didn’t factor in these unexpected wardrobe changes when we were busy figuring out the definition of “appropriate recreational clothing.”
My whining yanked Jan to a standing position. “The good news? Let's start with you’re alive. You’re not having violent seizures. You’re not in a coma, and you’re not having to be sedated so you won’t injure yourself or someone else. Have you ever watched someone experience delirium tremens? No, of course not. More good news. And—” She shifted forward, held the basket with one hand, and pointed at me with the other—“you’re here. That's the best news of all.”
She handed me a small book pulled from the pocket of her scrubs. “Here, this is yours. I was supposed to give it to you tomorrow, but I think you could use it now. Write your name in it and today's date so you don’t forget tonight. Matthew will stop by when he's finished checking in everyone from their weekend passes. He’ll talk to you about tomorrow. After that, it's lights out.”
I sat cross-legged on the bed. Jan walked over and placed The Promise of a New Day on the nightstand. She gently patted my knee, “I’ll see you in the morning. Remember, one day at a time.”
She and the cart squeaked out of my room. I picked up the book of daily meditations. On the raspberry cover, a woman with long, flowing hair and outstretched arms faced a bright yellow sun the size of a half-dollar. Puffy white clouds separated the woman from the sun.
Seriously? Will I be doomed to cheesy as a sober person? But a book with melodrama-woman on the cover beat out no book. Sadly, it also trumped Anna Karenina. I’d dragged Anna along, all eight-hundred pages, because of a subconscious need to punish myself or to pose as a breezy intellectual. I remembered Molly lifted the novel and asked if it would be a doorstop.
I found a cheap plastic pen in the nightstand drawer: white with The Brookforest Center imprinted in black. I imagined not too many of those left the center. It would, though, be a great conversation piece. I could tell people the center provided free treatment, but their pen cost over fifty-thousand dollars. But then the only audience for that humor was probably already outside the door of my room.
Changing into my pink scruffy terrycloth robe, I wiggled under the covers, propped my marshmallow pillow against the headboard, and leaned back. I neatly printed my name and the date on the first page and stuck the pen back in the drawer. I opened to today's date,