Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [42]
“Thanks, Shelia. Let's stop there,” Kevin said.
Great. God's going to fix my alcoholism. Maybe Carl should’ve checked me into a church for treatment.
“Usually we cover a lot more ground, but it seems we have some first-timers here tonight. That little bit …”
I quickly diverted my attention to the book I’d snatched back from Theresa. No way was I going to risk being picked out of this group. Besides, what I just heard was definitely not about me. As if I caused my own troubles. This God who's supposed to help? Isn’t this God the one who took my baby? How many times at Alyssa's funeral did I have to brace myself for yet another dunderhead's rendition of, “Honey, God missed Alyssa so much in heaven He took her back to be with Him”?
By the end of the afternoon, my raw hands were my red badges of tolerance, stung from the insistent patting of otherwise well-meaning people. My heart was enraged, subjected to hearing Alyssa's name cradled in the mouths of those who’d never kissed the dimple in her shoulder, who’d never felt the warm weight of her in their arms. I blasted a poodle-haired, tomato-faced little man who said God wanted Alyssa because she had finished her work on earth.
“Finished? Finished? You call forty-two days of life finished? So, why are the rest of us here? What are you saying?” I didn’t care that with each question I pummeled him with, I grew louder. I didn’t care that I sprayed his round, seedy face with gin-laced spit. I didn’t care that the alcohol I’d gulped in the bathroom gurgled in my gut. I went for the kill. “So, what does that say about you? Why isn’t God finished with you, old man? Maybe you’re still here because God doesn’t care about you. If God cared about you, you’d already be in heaven, right?”
Molly reached me before Carl's mother, Gloria, did. She steered me to the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the faucets full force, and let me scream every profanity I knew. Probably even some I invented that afternoon.
Molly saved my life then too. Molly was saving my life today in this room.
I missed Molly.
Why couldn’t she be an alcoholic too? Then we could go through this together.
Some wisp of thought curled itself around me. “Why can’t you be sober? You could experience that with Molly.”
Oh, my. Did I just have a mini-blackout, and I’ve been sputtering like an idiot? Did Theresa answer me? No.
Kevin had stopped talking. “Go, ahead.” He pointed to a raised hand at the table.
“Hi, my name is Jesse, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Here we go again. I couldn’t bring myself to join the chorus, so I just mouthed, “Hi, Jesse.” Too many people here for anyone to notice if I was playing by the rules.
Jesse closed his eyes as if what he wanted to say was written inside his lids. His mouth and his eyes opened at precisely the same moment like they were on the same switch. Both appeared wide and shockingly soft for a man who looked like he lifted trucks for a living. He picked his thumb with his forefinger as he spoke. He didn’t lift his eyes from the book. “That part about being selfish. About how it could kill us.”
A hush grabbed the room by its throat. We waited for the unspoken that would release us. Jesse glanced at Kevin and then as if tugged by the groaning of his heart, Jesse bowed his head. His words drifted up toward us. “I never really thought of myself as selfish. I’m in construction. I work hard. Gave my wife enough money to pay bills, take care of the kids. Figured, what's wrong with me going out drinking with a few of the men after work? I deserved it. I was the one sweating all day, every day.”
Jesse paused.
I wiggled my toes inside my shoes. If they gave pedicures during these meetings, things would seem to move a whole lot faster. This guy's a bit too whacked out