Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [53]
Only my time with Ron makes the inferno seem like an enthusiastic sauna at a day spa. The first appointment was brutal—like labor pains. At first, I didn’t know what to expect, so each new contraction was a frightful surprise. But as time passed, and the contractions grew stronger and more frequent, anticipating the pain only increased its intensity.
After the first session, I craved a cold six-pack or a small instrument of torture. Or both. Ron did not do nice. He did not want nice. And he thought I was nice.
“I’ve read Trey and Kevin's notes. You’re the little housewife alcoholic.” A verbal cocktail of two parts serious, one part sarcasm. Stirred slowly over a wedge of a smile.
My inner child stuck out her tongue.
Ron opened the manila file on his desk. “You are Leah, right?”
I knew a rhetorical question when I heard one. But what I didn’t know was why I’d been auctioned off to this guy after I’d already faced off with Trey.
“I’m confused. I thought I was supposed to see Trey.” Inner child just entered puberty.
“Sorry. I thought he or somebody—” he glanced down at my file and looked back at me “—explained the line-up. Trey's in charge of family sessions. You and I will meet for one-on-one sessions. Beginning today.”
Obviously there was no limit to the number of people allowed access to my brain. At some point could I hang a neon “no vacancy” sign on my forehead? At least Carl might be placated knowing the insurance coverage provided generously.
“I already went over this with Trey.” An all-too-familiar flush of self-consciousness bled out of my pores. I didn’t need a mirror to know the blush would rise from my neck to my cheeks like mercury in a thermometer. How many times did I have to confess? How many times did I have to unfold the story from my memory, rolling it out like a beginner's crudely knitted scarf?
“I know. I don’t want to read Trey's version of your version. I’d rather hear you tell me.” He reached in the desk drawer, pulled out a paper clip, started it on tumblesets between his fingers, and stared at me.
“But I’m not a real alcoholic. I’m in mid-stage.”
Ron's paper clip stilled.
“That's what the intake person told me.” Oh, brilliant me.
“I see,” said Ron, in a snarky way that said not only did he not see, but he saw I didn’t see as well. He dropped the paper clip into a chipped mug on his desk that held two yellow pencils and a pair of scissors. “Not a real alcoholic. Hm. Tell me how you define this ‘mid-stage’.”
I didn’t heed the cynicism that hitched a ride on Ron's voice. I pedaled right off into the land of eager-to-please and explained my mid-stagedness to him. How I didn’t drink all day, how I waited until five o’clock, except on weekends when, really, drinking could start before noon or even at breakfast depending on the occasion, and I wouldn’t get vomiting sick all the time, and I mostly drank beer, and wine—red wine, which is good for you—and sometimes vodka and gin, hardly ever rum, and I could stop drinking anytime I wanted to because I’d stopped for a few days and I was fine, but my husband and his family drank. And, of course, there were all these social events we had to attend, and it's rude to not drink when you’re offered a drink, and I knew not to drive if I drank too much, and Carl always knew when I drank too much, so he’d be sure to take my keys, and I’d never had an accident from drinking—well, just that one time when I didn’t see the mailbox, but that doesn’t really count as an accident.
“You must be exhausted,” he said. Sympathetic words dipped in battery acid. Ron leaned back in his ergonomically correct chair and pulsed gently. He scratched the side of his head with his pen. It didn’t even disturb his close-cut hair the color of red clay I’d find in my backyard. Appraising eyes, like he was examining a diamond