Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [59]
“Oh, and the name's Bob. I’m Leah's father.”
Random throat clearings and scattered “Hi, Bob” replies fell like dominoes falling around the circle.
Hello. And I’m his mortified daughter. I shrugged my shoulders, mouthed “I’m sorry” to future Doug, and checked out Trey to see if he was already popping a Pez. Not yet. The rest of the group played “pass a glance.”
I didn’t need to look at Carl to know he was brushing phantom lint off his pants. He used the technique to avoid eye contact when embarrassed, appalled, and/or inappropriately amused. Carl and Dad had been friends for years, so I doubt he was surprised by his introduction. If anything, Carl, who tended to be socially paralyzed, admired my dad's unabashed friendliness. I once teased that Tom Cruise's line, “You complete me,” in the movie Jerry McGuire was meant for them. Though I’m sure Carl and my dad agreed with me, they were such self-proclaimed nerds, they wouldn’t dare admit it publicly.
I leaned toward Dad and whispered, “This isn’t an AA meeting.”
Uh-oh. How had I forgotten? Peter and I learned early never to kick Dad under the table to forestall his reckless storytelling. For some people it might be a story-stopper move, but not my father. He stopped only to look around the table and ask, “Who kicked me?”
“Honey,” he said and slid his arm around my shoulders and squeezed, “I know this isn’t one of those meetings.” I heard synchronized gasps. Designer Drug Princess crossed and recrossed her tanned and toned legs, a momentary entertainment for most of the males. Trey, however, captivated by his Blackberry, flicked his hand in one of those “Go on without me” gestures.
Dad loosened his grip around me, reclaimed his arm, and nodded in future Doug's direction. “Sorry to interrupt, son. You were saying?”
Mrs. Doug gently tugged on her son's shirtsleeve. “Go ahead, Danny. Finish what you were saying about Paul.”
“Yeah, kid.” Doug laughed, but it was Grand Canyon hollow. “Thump that Bible ya mother gave ya and give it to me straight.” Doug slouched in the chair and waited.
After that night, I truly understood the rationale behind scheduling our individual therapy appointments the day after family group.
We needed therapy to recover from therapy.
“Too bad you had to miss it. Maybe next week I can pass you off as my sister. You’d be hooting for days,” I said to Molly. She’d picked up a few LSU tees from my house so I could simultaneously be comfortable and torture Jan, a graduate of Alabama. Nothing like an SEC rivalry to spice the gumbo of rehab life.
“All that energy planning your attire and look what you’ve been reduced to.” Molly giggled as she handed me the shirts. “Promise me you won’t ask me to bring over a purple and gold LSU bikini. If Ann Taylor found out I was transporting tacky, they’d cancel my shopping privileges.”
“You’re right, girl,” I said. “It's a real opportunity they provided us, allowing us to dump bucks in their store. You’re safe, though. Nobody's going to see this body in any kind of bathing suit, much less one that could fit in my pocket.”
The atrium where we’d been sitting spared us the direct assault of the afternoon sun. July in Texas meant heat 24/7. Heat so dense it would mold itself to a body. Heat you could step in and out of like clothes. Heat that, by day's end, exhausted even the plants. Their leaves drooped in surrender like parched green tongues.
After spending so many days in climate-controlled interiors, I’d forgotten I was surrounded by a natural sauna. I’d also forgotten the joy of peeling myself off a wrought-iron chair that waffled the backs of my thighs. What I had not forgotten was the humiliation of wearing a bathing suit. Of overhearing Carl's mother, as she cooed and rocked Alyssa, tell her husband she hoped her granddaughter didn’t inherit my thunder thighs. Of pretending to enjoy their lake house, the place Carl hoped to inherit one day. The place, Carl reminded me last night, my father missed out