Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [23]
“Okay, folks. Make sure you don’t leave anything behind. We’ll head back up and have time for a smoke break.” Maybe I should start smoking. Even the intense sun, soggy humidity, and suffocating cigarette smoke would have provided a welcome break from the stale air inside.
I stared at the human mishmash as they shuffled plates and chairs on their way out of the cafeteria. They discarded me, a broken toy on their playground. I was either an untouchable or invisible.
“Don’t you worry, honey,” my mother consoled me from the heavens. “They may be ignoring you, but remember God's always awake.”
Well, Mom, today was one of His narcoleptic days.
I shifted my attention to Cathryn, who had refilled her coffee cup. She slid into a chair and launched into my agenda items for the next two days, none of which included recess. At the end of the those forty-eight hours, we’d have another chat about my schedule of individual and group therapies, phone and visiting privileges, weekend releases, occupational therapy, and mandatory on- and off-site AA meeting attendance.
“So, how are you feeling? And spare me the ‘I’m fine.’ I know you’re not.” She sipped her coffee and waited.
“I’m not fine. I don’t even know what fine means anymore.” I knew what it used to be, long ago and far away. I checked Cathryn's hands. No engagement ring or wedding band. Maybe she won’t even understand what comes next. “Some things, some parts of my life I’m, um, not missing at all.”
Coffee cup down. Eyebrows up.
“Really, I mean that. It's hard to explain. Well, not hard to explain. I guess I never had to explain it. But, anyway, I’m scared to be here, but I’m scared not to be here. Then I have these gigantic headaches and a three-ring circus going on in my stomach.” I took a break from talking and twisted my paper napkin around the empty orange juice glass. I had to be careful. I already sensed a trickle in the floodwall I had so carefully constructed. If I said too much, I couldn’t contain the breach. It would unleash an uncontrollable emotional torrent.
I took a deep breath. “I feel bad for Carl. It's not like he asked for any of this. I just dumped all this stuff in his lap and ran here. He called my dad because I just couldn’t do it. And what's he supposed to tell our friends and neighbors when they ask where I am? Like poor Mr. Rossner at the end of our block, who started a petition to ask the network for a Houston CSI. By the end of the month, he’ll suspect Carl's buried me in the backyard.” There. Good word play. End on a grin. I’d run out of dry napkins to twist, so I stacked the little gold tin jelly containers.
Cathryn slid her empty coffee cup to the side.
“Well, has he? Has Carl buried you?”
“Would I be here if he had?”
I stacked and restacked, knowing if I stopped I might get careless and vulnerable. I stayed focused by making sure I placed the grape jelly squarely on top of the boysenberry. Cathryn gazed at the top of my head for quite some time. She’d probably already figured out I dyed my hair.
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe that's a question you’ll have to answer eventually … with someone else. I’m not a therapist. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
I scrinched my mouth to trap the wicked snicker behind my teeth. Her Pee Wee League definition of uncomfortable couldn’t run on the same field with Carl's Professional Leaguers. I swallowed and mumbled, “Not at all.”
I unstacked the jellies and arranged them in alphabetical order. Apple, boysenberry, grape, raspberry, strawberry. I’m far too entertained by these things. But how else was I supposed to distract myself? I didn’t really want to talk, and I honestly didn’t want to be talked to. I returned the little boxes to the basket and looked at Cathryn.
“Carl will figure