Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [43]
Theresa shifted her cargo to the edge of the sofa, and I almost toppled over in the process. Her entire body focused on Jesse. I made an effort to pay attention.
“Well,” he continued, but his soft voice had a jagged edge to it. I recognized that sound. “I told the guys I was passing up going to the bar this one night because I’d promised my little boy I’d take him to his baseball game. But you know one beer doesn’t take too long. When I got home that night, nobody was there. It was almost eleven o’clock. Next thing I know, I’m on the floor, and the doorbell's ringing.”
I plugged my ears with my fingers. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to hear this. But I did. Theresa and her musky perfume inched forward and left behind the smell of rotting carnations.
The man next to Jesse, whose skin looked like sand cracked and fissured by an unforgiving sun, put his hand on Jesse's shoulder. His fingers reminded me of gnarled tree roots.
“I’m mad ’cuz they woke me up,” Jesse said. “I opened the door screaming, ‘You got a key …’ There's a man standing on my porch with the Sheriff's Department. He told me he’d get me to the hospital. That my son would be fine.”
For a moment, I allowed myself to breathe. See, his little boy's fine. He learned his lesson. Please stop there. Please make this be it. But I already knew enough about AA to know we wouldn’t all be sitting in this room if there were happy endings. And now, Jesse's heaving shoulders and the downcast eyes of everyone who sat near him made me want to fly out the front doors.
Jesse's voice strangled. “I didn’t even ask about my wife. I was so relieved to hear about Ryan, I didn’t even ask about Cindy. Sheriff told me when we got in his car. Told me the woman who ran the light hit the driver's side head-on. Cindy didn’t have a chance.”
No one moved. The sinners listening to the confession of a fellow sinner. No escape clauses here.
Jesse grabbed tissues from a box passed to him. “I was supposed to die. Not her. I’m the one broke my promise to my kid. Now I’m the one who killed his mother. You know, I thought drinking would kill me. But it killed Cindy.”
He stopped to blow his nose. Mr. Gnarled Hands gave Jesse a one-armed hug.
“I’ve been sober almost a year. Only way I could stay that way was with God helping. And I’m gonna stay that way—one day at a time—’cuz Ryan deserves a dad who's sober.”
Journal 7
Carl wanted a baby. He talked about having a son, about how much time they would spend together, about how he would teach his son to respect him. We’d been married only two years, as many years as I’d been teaching.
At first, Carl didn’t mention the subject of babies very much. As two years turned into three, he became more insistent. He’d see a baby and ask me, “When? When is it going to be okay with you?”
All I could answer was, “I don’t know.” It wasn’t that I didn’t want children. I didn’t know how to tell him that the thought of being a mother terrified me. I wasn’t sure I could give up my life. I didn’t know how to be a mother.
Months later, I discovered his mother doubted me too. Carl's parents were having dinner at our house. They were outside grilling steaks, and I went inside to finish setting the table. I was in the pantry looking for napkins when I heard Carl and his mother walk into the kitchen. I almost called out to tell them where I was when Carl's mother said, “I don’t understand why you’re so anxious for a baby right now.”
I held on to the napkins and waited. Carl said, “Well, Mother, I’m surprised you’re not ready to be a grandmother.” Ice coughed out of the refrigerator dispenser.
“Carl, dear, for one thing, Leah already has, um, let's say, ‘ample’ hips for a woman her size. Having a child isn’t going to help that any. And, another thing, she's just doesn’t seem ready to give up that teaching thing of hers.”
I quickly stepped into the bathroom