Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [34]
Finally, I suspended my psychic transference with the floor. When I lifted my head, the first face I saw was Annie's. Her eyes were dull, like unpolished silver. An invisible screen separated us. She focused on a movie playing itself out, one only she could see. I stopped smiling.
The pause allowed time for random body shifting. Even my well-padded posterior felt numb. It didn’t help that the room could have doubled as a meat locker. The near-freezing temperature must have some effect on addictions. In that space of quiet, I allowed myself my first deep breath since the mini-interrogation.
Everyone else seemed comfortable with the stillness. Me? I waited for the other shoe to fall. Why?
Exactly.
Why did I have to gird myself for impending doom? If the bad thing hadn’t already happened, it's sure enough going to happen, and it's just a matter of time, probably even closer than you think if something good's happened, so buck up, baby. Hold on. The breath out of everyone's mouth was a gale force wind.
A few coughs broke the stillness. Theresa sneezed and wiped her hands on her jeans. One of the U2 kids belched. They both laughed. Annie surfaced from her meditative state. Doug snored. Amazing. Minus the gravel he seemed to be processing through his nostrils, he could be mistaken for someone deeply prayerful.
“We’ll shut down introductions for now. Let's review some ground rules for these group sessions. First,” and this time Mr. Doctor smiled, “would someone mind elbowing Doug over there?”
Journal 6
“You need help.”
Oh, yes, I thought, more than you could possibly imagine. But the words that danced from my mouth wore different clothes. “You’re probably right.”
He stopped counting the pairs of folded socks stacked in the corner of the suitcase to turn to me. I stood behind him. Out of arm's reach. “Probably? No, that's where you’re mistaken. There's no probably.”
The suitcase yawned on top of the tightly made bed covered with a cranberry silk quilt and a floral embroidered duvet. Carl's lips made an almost perfectly straight line between his nose and his chin.
“I’m going out of town for over a week. I told you last night I needed you. In fact, I told you even before I left for work yesterday I couldn’t wait to get home. And you? You won’t come to bed with me.”
She flinched as the raw disgust in his voice crawled down her back.
“You watch some stupid shows on television, read. I never know what you’re up to out there while I’m in here waiting. Waiting for you. When you finally get yourself in bed, you won’t let me touch you. How's a husband supposed to survive like that?”
She stilled her body and waited. This would not be the end of the tirade. I knew he must punish me as he felt I ’d punished him . At least this was familiar. I knew what to expect.
He walked over to me. His meaty hands filled the hollows of my shoulders. He leaned over. His mouth pressed against my right ear. I focused on the Miersdorf watercolor hanging on the wall. Painted with jazzy reds and inky blacks and sapphire blues, the piano grinned at the shadowy figure perched on the piano stool. I made myself tiny inside the shell of my body. His moist whispers coated my neck. The clammy wetness reminded me of the mulch in my father's backyard and how, when he’d turn it over, a manure-heavy steam would rise from the pile.
“I’ll be home on Sunday. We can make up for all the lost time. I know you’ll be ready then.”
16
Do you know what's worse than group with Dr… . ? Oh—I know. Nothing,” I said to Jan, whose afternoon shift started while I suffered in the Little Shop of Therapy Horrors. Actually, I was talking at her since I didn’t want or ask for a response. Judging by the lazy grin on Jan's face, I wasn’t the first trauma victim suffering