Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [46]
I jabbed a grape tomato in my salad. Stabbing tiny tomatoes with a salad fork was not conducive to releasing significant feelings of hostility. “What are we supposed to talk about? And please don’t ask me, ‘What do you want to talk about?’”
She glanced out the window, probably wishing she was playing in the fountain. “It's awkward, I know. These first meetings always are. The time will pass faster than you think. Talk about your day, the food, or, in your case, the ice cream.” Cathryn laughed and slid her chair back from the table. “And trust that God's going to help you through this too.”
Enough with this God already. “Why, is He going to be there?”
“Well, He just might be.” Cathryn smiled and walked away.
Everybody but Theresa and me would be checked out for overnights. After the group left, she and I were like two people on a blind date and about as comfortable as if we’d dressed for prom and found ourselves at a football game. Cathryn didn’t even attempt to rescue either one of us. She’d blockaded herself behind the counter with charts, the telephone, and a stack of magazines.
“I know you’re not the playing games kinda girl. You wanna watch TV?” Theresa aimed the remote, ready to fire away at channels.
So, this was my life. Saturday night in rehab. With another woman. A woman who collected bracelets like I collect pens.
We’re both pathetic.
At least we have that in common.
Sunday morning. Two hours and counting.
One day at a time. Sometimes, one hour at a time.
Before that first AA meeting ended, Kevin told us, “This is a twenty-four hour program. Nobody's asking you to stay sober for the rest of your life. Just tell yourself, ‘I won’t take a drink today.’ It's one day, one hour, one minute at a time.” Then he had handed out what he called sobriety chips.
In the bus on the way back, I told Matthew when I first saw the box of chips, I thought Kevin might be tossing them out to the group. They looked like the doubloons that riders threw from parade floats during Mardi Gras.
“It was one of those rites of passage. Picking up a doubloon off the ground before somebody smashed your fingers trying to take it away. I’ve seen grown men lifted off their feet by puny grandma types.”
Matthew looked perplexed. “Any why would anyone want these things?”
“I guess it's like catching money. Only we all knew it wasn’t. But some people said they’d be valuable later. One year, I was standing on a ladder when one of the riders pitched a handful to the crowd. Hundreds of spinning gold coins, then the sound of all that aluminum hitting the street. Like rain on a tin roof. The crowd just folded in on itself, people slapping themselves on the ground to nab one. Watching from above, it was kind of silly and amazing at the same time.”
“That's one problem you won’t have when you get your sobriety chip at the end of a meeting. Alcoholics are actually more civilized than that.” Matthew paused. “Well, at least the recovering ones.”
One of the chips Kevin called the Desire Chip, for people who had the desire or who’d been sober for twenty-four hours. Theresa elbowed me, “Hey, Miss Thing, we can get us one of those.” The thought of walking across that room made me want a drink, which I was sure was not what I would need to be thinking on my way to getting a sobriety chip. Seemed exactly the definition of irony. Alanis Moiresette should’ve written a song about it. I looked at Theresa. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.” She tsk, tsk-ed me, and Miss Bracelet jangled her way to Kevin while I sat on the sofa scratching my hand.
I regretted my dumb hesitation. If I had walked myself to the front that night, I’d at least have something to talk about this afternoon: my own little show and tell for company. I could tell Molly it was my prize for being a model patient for the first week. Carl would snicker and probably say something about how it didn’t take much to make me happy. And he’d be so right,