Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [28]
I almost crashed into the wall after I catapulted out of the chair. I must have looked like the kid dropped off with the sitter whose mother had just appeared with the sweet promise of predictable normalcy.
“I am so glad to see you,” I told Cathryn, and I meant it. We both laughed. Now that was frightening.
On the return trip to the floor, Cathryn told me Carl, my father, and Molly had all called for a progress report. I wasn’t allowed phone privileges yet, but family and friends could call in for an update. Not having phone conversations proved to be a blessing rather than the curse I’d originally thought. I didn’t have to regurgitate my every waking and sleeping moment. I didn’t have to listen to the outpourings of sympathy, anger, or guilt from anyone else. Blameless. What a deal.
She summarized the calls, starting with Carl who wanted to know if I was medicated, sleeping, and/or anxious to see him. “A rousing chorus of ‘No, no, and no,’ on those,” I told her and she didn’t ask me to elaborate. Molly wanted me to know she was praying for me, for Carl, and for anyone who had anything to do with my successful sobriety. Even though I hadn’t given much positive thought lately to God, I felt comforted knowing I had my personal prayer warrior going into battle for me. And I knew Molly was fierce. She’d be kicking evil butts all over the place on my behalf.
And then there was my father. Cathryn said she spoke to him the longest. I wasn’t surprised. My dad didn’t know a stranger. And he and Carl were the best of friends. He said Carl was the son he never had, a curious statement always made out of earshot of my brother. Dad loved football and food and family and friends. Together or separately. After my mother died, he added Johnny Walker Red and Chivas Regal to the list.
“Your dad said if you needed anything—food, money—just let him know. He’ll get it to you.” Cathryn paused. Her voice softened as the elevator whirred to the next floor. “And he said to tell you he loves you very much.”
My shoes blurred as I stared at them through eyes brimming with tears. How deeply had I disappointed him? I hadn’t allowed myself to think about him until now. After Mom died, he was like a man who’d spend days preparing a Thanksgiving meal only to watch it all rot because no one showed up. When he visited, he’d shamble around the house, following me from pantry to kitchen to laundry room to kitchen again. I learned not to stop too short or turn too quickly. He wanted so desperately to be needed.
“What can I do? Do you need to hang any pictures? I can do that for you. I’ve been looking at your garden. I could put more cypress mulch around the bedding plants in the front. How about a trellis?”
I’d tell Carl, “My dad's coming next week. Don’t fix anything. In fact, break something if you can. Are any pipes leaking? Faucets dripping?”
I didn’t think he’d call, at least not so soon. I didn’t want to think about him, figuring out how to fix his daughter. I doubt if he’d talked to Peter. He and my brother heard life through separate radio channels.
Maybe it was better Dad didn’t have to prepare my mother for this disgrace and failure in my life. I pictured him standing in his kitchen, surrounded by the new, fingerprint-proof, stainless steel appliances and emerald-green granite countertops my mother had selected only a few months before she died. He’d be talking on the cordless phone while he sat on a wicker stool near the raised bar. Neither one of them ever bought into the concept of cordless phone freedom. They’d hover near the phone base as if secured by an invisible line. My mother would tell me to “hold on” when she’d hear the microwave beep. She’d set the phone on the counter, ignore my screechings that she could carry me with her, and then return after she’d pulled out her cup of hot water for her tea. After several fruitless