Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [54]
I squirmed.
He rocked.
I knew this game. The waiting game.
Ron would lose this one. I was an expert at disconnect. On nights when Carl forced himself on me, I’d make grocery lists in my head or imagine myself in my closet wondering what I’d wear to our next social event. I pretended to examine Ron's navy- and white-striped tie while I mentally squirmed from underneath Carl.
“Where are you going, Leah?”
Ron lost, but I’m the six-year-old standing by the front door, clutching my Strawberry Shortcake suitcase, announcing to my parents I’m running away.
“Nowhere. At least until the end of this month.” My voice pouted.
Rocking Ron stopped. “How difficult is it for you, being nice all the time? Must be mid-stage difficult, huh?”
He walked over to the window behind his desk and pulled up the shade. The sound reminded me of the backpack zipper symphony orchestrated by my students as they geared up to dart out of class the second after the bell rang.
“Predicting rain today.” He jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “Shops don’t look busy.”
Since he spoke to the window, I guessed he meant the shopping plaza across the street with stucco store fronts shaded by wide forest-green awnings. Cafe Latte on the corner. Molly and I would meet there for lunch. Carl and Devin avoided the place. Said it was too girlie. Like the salads wore lingerie. Two doors away was Babycakes, one of those stores that leveraged new parent angst into multiplying profits, full of cottony sherbet shades of baby-powder-scented everything. Lolly, the owner, sent us pink roses after Alyssa died. I’d plunged each one, bud first, into the garbage disposal. The stem didn’t grind well, but for a few seconds, as it made its descent, it looked like a green straw spinning crazily out of control. I understood. The process and the bottle of Robert Mondavi next to the sink had entertained me until we were both empty.
I shoved my right thumbnail into the cuticle on each finger of my left hand, pushed the skin back, and wished I’d been blessed with my mother's smooth porcelain tapered fingers— hands that could’ve rested softly on piano keys instead of packs of cigarettes and cheap lighters.
“My mother drank.” I worked back the skin on my ring finger. “Wine.” I moved to my little finger. “Every day after work. Weekends, too.” Finished.
Ron sat down. “Okay, we’ll start there.”
24
The white eyelet halter or the sleeveless red wrap?”
I stared at the dresses draped across my bed, tapped my foot on the floor, and pulled my robe tighter.
If I didn’t start drying off better, my calves eventually would turn into popsicles from the air blowing out of the bedroom vents. That closet-sized bathroom invaded by steamy post-shower dankness suffocated me. I felt pin-pricks of anxiety about to give birth to panic, and I could hardly escape fast enough.
After several times of witnessing my desperate bolting out of the bathroom like my back was on fire, Theresa said she just stayed away from the door when she heard the water stop. Since after breakfast today, though, she stayed away from everything and everybody.
“Hey, you haven’t moved in over an hour. And I know you’re not sleeping because you’d be snoring by now. White or red? Come on. I need some help here.”
Theresa looked like a life-sized rag doll. Her hair, roped and ribboned, fanned out over the pillow. Clasped across her stomach, her hands seemed puny and naked without her gallery of rings. The Pepto-pink velour pants encased her curves. I couldn’t tell if her too-small clothes were trademark or reminiscent of a Theresa past. Shame on me. I focused on the weight of her body and not the weight of her spirit. What was that line in Matthew about being judged by the same rules we use to judge others? God probably has a team of angelic architects designing a scale that would announce the weight of my sins to the universe.
“Girl, you can be one pain in the …” She slid the pillow over her face and smothered the rest of her sentence.
“Butt. Yes,