Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [39]
No bathroom attendants at AA meetings. Alcoholism was an equal opportunity disease with open enrollment in its discreet, sparsely decorated clubs.
How proud Gloria Hamilton Thornton would be to finally brag to her bridge club that her only daughter-in-law had been selected for membership in a club so exclusive she had to be driven for almost an hour in an unmarked school bus to find it. In all fairness, even my mother wouldn’t have posted this news flash on her office bulletin board.
Mom never liked “who does she think she is” Gloria. She tolerated her for me. When Gloria entered the same orbit as my mother, strangers would have nominated Mom for the woman most likely to appear as if she's on Prozac award. She transformed into a one-dimensional version of herself, her expression a carefully constructed façade, crafted from years of pretending she enjoyed her secretarial job and cemented with the promise of her only daughter's future happiness. If Mom surrendered God's ear for just a moment and materialized in this room, what face would she have worn for me?
Theresa reappeared, a cup of black coffee in one hand and a small blue book in the other. “Hey, me and Annie's been lookin’ around for you.”
I choked out an “Oh,” swallowed the pronoun lesson, and mentally strangled my thoughts before they had lives of their own. She handed her coffee and book to Annie, alternately tugged the straps of her denim overalls, then wiggled her entire body into some balance between comfort and modesty. The whole routine was somewhat fascinating, like watching one of those circus cars and wondering when the clowns would stop jumping out. She grabbed her coffee cup so quickly some of it splattered on the floor like swollen black raindrops. Annie hopped backward, saving her sandaled toes from a mild scalding.
“I’ll go find some napkins,” she said and handed Theresa the book before she plodded off in the direction of the long tables.
“Man, I hate when that happens. Now my tank may need a refill in the middle of the meetin’.” Theresa's gauge must have worn out years ago.
She looked in Annie's direction. “She's an okay kid, you know. Just gotta give her a chance. She's had a real messed-up life, and she don’t trust too many people, especially women, right away.”
I wasn’t sure what shocked me most. That Theresa was capable of whispering. That she knew enough scoop to be able to relay this information. Or that she supposed Annie's unfriendliness mattered to me. If Theresa defined Annie's life as “messed-up,” what dysfunctional ruler was she using to measure her own life?
“Anyway,” Theresa continued, indicating a response from me was not expected, “don’t say nothing to her about what I told you.” She handed me the book she’d been holding. “Matthew asked me to give you this. Said it's yours to keep.”
More books? First, a book of daily devotions in the hospital and now this. The size of a chunky paperback, the book had a blue cover embossed with the words Alcoholics Anonymous. I thumbed through the five hundred or so pages. “So, when's the test? And why aren’t there any pictures in this thing?”
“It's your Big Book. It's kind of like an AA Bible,” Annie said. She handed her stash of napkins to Theresa, who tossed them on the floor, held them down with her foot, and proceeded to swipe the coffee spill.
Theresa stared at the wet glob of napkins.
“Just bend over and pick them up. You can’t leave that mess there,” said Annie, who strolled away to the tables.
“Man, I don’t clean this much at my own place.” Theresa grunted. She held the mess between her thumb and forefinger like biohazard waste and shoved it all in her coffee cup. The chatting pods