Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [20]
My rumbling belly signaled hunger or trouble. I figured I should at least cruise the breakfast options. After my two-step floss and brush, then my three-step skin care, I skipped the multi-stepped cosmetic routine. No one knew me here. We might as well each be assigned an alias since using a name outside of this hospital was almost a federal offense. Unless, of course, they admitted a celebrity in dire need of publicity.
Day 2. I wore white linen capris and a screaming orange sleeveless blouse scheduled for Day 3. The pants grabbed a bit too much when I bent over and reached for my new white canvas shoes. I spotted the meditation book on the floor near the bed. Sometime during the night, it must have fallen out of my hands. Probably on one of my bathroom trips. I placed it on the bed, finished tying my shoes, then opened it to July 5 and read, “It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” Okay, Ursula K. Le Guin, let's you and I journey to breakfast, and we’ll take it from there.
Another knock.
“Five minutes,” mystery voice called out.
Did anyone ever open a door around here? Did they not realize there's a hall of people in various stages of withdrawal and recovery, and knocking was not conducive to either one?
A deep breath later, I opened the door that separated me from what I am, and what I might become.
10
Voices rose and fell from the once empty patient rooms of the previous night. The ten-year-old inside me didn’t want to walk into the room alone. Frankly, neither did the twenty-seven-year-old who housed her. I neared the center station but didn’t see the familiar faces of Jan or Matthew.
Great. They deserted me too.
“Leah?” The voice of the knock approached. With the exception of wearing sneakers instead of deck shoes, she wore clothes identical to Matthew's from the night before—khakis and a white collared blouse. She, however, twisted her long hair into a loose chignon. I couldn’t tell if the charcoal-shaded wisps and strands that surrounded her head and neck were purposeful or just the result of sloppy braiding. She didn’t wear a drop of makeup, her eyes were the color of aquamarines, her skin was flawless, her legs rivaled Julia Roberts's—already I’m not liking this chick.
“You got her,” I answered in my best perky voice.
“I’m Cathryn. I work days.” She reached out to shake my hand.
“I guess I’ll know I’ve been here awhile when I’ve stopped shaking hands. How many more of you are there?” Judging by Cathryn's deadpan stare, not too many mornings kicked off with someone's skewed sense of humor.
“Not enough. Not nearly enough,” she answered. With both hands, she tucked her bangs into the uneven mass of hair on the top of her head. “I’ll introduce you to the group, then you and I will walk to the cafeteria together so I can catch you up on what you’ll be doing today.”
Bodies littered the drab room of yesterday. Two were lying on the sofas, hands cupped under their heads, eyes closed. One stood in the middle of the room and aimed the remote control at the television; stations flicked on the screen in measured beats. One sat in the back, legs crossed, and flipped through a magazine. Cathryn and I walked into the middle of the room. No one noticed, or they pretended not to notice.
Surely, this Tropicana orange blouse was a shocker to anyone's morning.
“Everyone, this is Leah. She arrived yesterday afternoon,” Cathryn said. Magazine-flipper raised her head, glanced at me, and nodded. Station-flicker waved over his shoulder with his free hand and continued cycling through the cable offerings. Sleeper number one, I learned later, was Doug. He grunted without even bothering to open his eyes. Sleeper number two actually stood, swaggered over, and patted me on the back. He was young enough to be one of my students.
“I’m Vince. Welcome to Junkie Paradise. Even though you don’t look like no junkie. Whatta