Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [40]
My first AA meeting. Hmmm. Where does one record this memorable event? The page of firsts in Alyssa's petal pink baby book flashed in front of me. “First smile, first car ride, first—” The empty page screamed my heart's loss. But no one had yet created an adult version. “First marriage, first baby, first baby lost, first marriage lost, first addiction, first recovery …” Maybe creating a grown-up's scrapbook of events could be my post-recovery contribution to capitalism. Documented, of course, under “first post-recovery entrepreneurial enterprise.”
Mr. Suited Square Face called the meeting to order. Everyone gravitated to the long brown tables placed end to end and surrounded by a haphazard arrangement of folding chairs. A few worn loveseats provided second-row seating for the latecomers like Theresa and me.
A mushroom cloud of cigarette smoke billowed. I looked around for my little dysfunctional family. I dreaded the possibility that, if this was like some classroom experience, Theresa and I might have to engage in small group sharing. I considered relocating before this “function” officially started. Annie and Matthew sat next to each other at the table, but there were no empty chairs on either side of them. Doug and his sidekicks were clumped at the far end of the tables. I heard a distinct noise I suspected didn’t originate from Theresa's mouth. “My bad,” she giggled and waved her hand in front of her face. Her signature bracelets bounced against one another, a little background chorus that, unfortunately, didn’t scare away the smell. But she kept waving.
“Yes, on the sofa,” Mr. Square Face said, pointing in our direction. “Are you volunteering to start the Serenity Prayer?”
Theresa looked at her hand as if it had been a new appendage that suddenly sprouted from her wrist. I scooted back on the sofa and luxuriated in the smidgen of joy her squirming provided.
“Me? Oh, no. I was getting your attention for my friend here.” Theresa reached back and wrapped her traitorous leg-of-lamb arm around my shoulder. “She wanted to do that.”
18
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth when I heard Theresa volunteer me to lead a prayer I didn’t even know. I coordinated my lips enough to mumble, “Uh, no, not tonight, but thanks.”
I wanted to slap the braids right out of her electrified hair with that new Big Book. It was only my first AA meeting, but I was certain assaulting a fellow alcoholic wasn’t one of those Twelve Steps. I was also sure that humiliating the newcomer wasn’t either, but I supposed she evened the score between us. Theresa's embarrassing me was her payback for what she felt was my fault for Cathryn confiscating her laptop.
A voice from the back of the room said, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change …”
Serenity? They’re kidding, right?
I’m supposed to accept watching my barely six-week-old daughter being lowered into the ground in the tiniest casket I never wanted to see? For weeks I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing Alyssa's face staring at me through the lid of her coffin. In my mind's eye I’d see her eyes, liquid emerald saucers, pleading with me not to let her go. I’d roll myself off the sofa and walk to the refrigerator, open the door, and pray there would be enough beer or wine to give me safe passage into sleep.
A chorus of “Amens” reminded me that people who forfeited tickets to safe passages filled the room. I leaned back, lifted my head to face the ceiling, and hoped the tears would evaporate before Theresa volunteered me to lead the meeting.
The man at the table spoke. “Welcome, especially to our newcomers tonight. My name's Kevin, and I’m an alcoholic. By the grace of God and the fellowship of this group, I’ve been sober for eleven years.”
The room answered, “Hello, Kevin.”
Oh, no. For years I attended school board-sponsored meetings and spent more time engaged in silly icebreakers than in valuable ideas for … hello