Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [29]
By the time my phone restrictions ended, Dad would have had time to stir the news around, letting it dissolve like an Alka-Seltzer in water.
The elevator doors clanged open.
“How did he sound? My dad, I mean.” I pushed my words over the dam in my throat that held back rivers of regret and guilt and shame.
“Kind,” Cathryn said. “He sounded kind and caring and concerned, Leah. He told me all he wants is for you to be well. He said something along the lines of, ‘You take care of my baby, now. You know, she's my only daughter.’ No pressure, huh? Oh, I almost forgot.” She smiled, pulled paper and a pen from the counter, and handed them to me. “He said to write what you want to eat on your first weekend home, and he’d be there to cook it for you. In fact, he promised to cook extras for the staff.”
“My father believes any problem can be solved by raw oysters, a crawfish boil, and Blue Bell Natural Vanilla Bean ice cream slathered on hot apple pie,” I said.
“Who am I to argue with that?” Cathryn chuckled. “Write on, girl.”
That night my new dysfunctional family and I went to the cafeteria for dinner. I hadn’t spent more than five minutes with anyone in the group since the time I met everyone in the communal playroom. And even though Theresa was admitted after me, the crew already welcomed her. She knew Doug, so that put her miles ahead of me on the rehab food chain. I watched her move around and envied how easily she laughed with the group, chatted with the staff. But was I supposed to want to be like the woman who felt comfortable checking in for round two? Something about that seemed skewed. So, did recognizing the lunacy of that logic mean I was better or worse?
I trailed Benny and Vince, who argued over who would serve first at the volleyball game that night. Funny how the more a person's world shrinks, the more otherwise insignificant acts grow. I suspected this wasn’t the first time they had discussed this.
“Man, you suck at serving,” Vince said. “Come on, you seen me slam that ball over the net so hard, old Doug wished he’d be on his way to another blackout.”
“What? You think we’re here for Olympic tryouts or somethin’?” Benny playfully shoved Vince into the elevator. “How much fun you think it was standing there watching you pound the ball at them? We wanna play volleyball, not watch you be hero-server boy.”
Their banter continued as we walked through the cafeteria door. Annie brought a magazine with her. What a shocker. Guess she didn’t plan to engage in a stimulating dinner conversation. Had to give it to her. The chick used those mags as her “no talking” signs. And it worked. Of course, Doug and Theresa yapped on, totally involved in their little festival of memories.
I’m an outcast among outcasts. How pathetic. But what was I going to talk to these people about? Symbolism in The Scarlet Letter? Not exactly a mystery as to what brought us all together. Besides, my life compared to theirs was beyond boring. It wasn’t like we were going to have reunions after we left Brookforest. We couldn’t find each other anyway; we didn’t even know one another's last names.
“Hey, Miss, you gonna get a tray or what?” said Benny.
“Sure, I’m on it. Sorry,” I said, embarrassed to be so mesmerized by my conversation with myself.
I wasn’t sure if it was the sight of meat slabs soaking in juices the color of oil spills or the cacophony of pungent aromas that created a ruckus in my gut, but my tray didn’t make it past the salads. A geyser of yesterday's meals came up from my stomach and crashed its way to the shore of my mouth. I bolted to the bathroom.
Benny's voice followed me, “Miss, you forgot your tray.”
14
I was alone.
Well, about as alone as a recovering alcoholic can be in a treatment center. After my mad dash out of the dining room, I skipped dinner and headed upstairs.