Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [64]
“Strange, isn’t it? That banner stretched across the wall in my classroom for years. Guess I should have lived it instead of just read it,” I said. “Who knew?”
“I don’t get this.” Molly twisted the chip in her hand. “Why are the letters H-O-W inside each angle on this triangle?”
“I just read about that in my Reflection for the Day book. It's Honesty, Open-Mindedness, and Willingness. Qualities we can use to help us see things differently. The Program's about remembering where we came from so we can really appreciate where we are.” Teacher-voice had taken over. “Sorry, y’all. Didn’t mean to shift into lecture mode.”
“Don’t apologize. It's cool to hear you talk about this,” Devin said. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Molly and I want you to know we believe in you. And we want to help any way you need us.”
I didn’t have to look at Molly to know she’d melted right into him.
I should be so lucky.
“You’re supposed to be excited about your first pass, unless squeezing the blood out of your hands is your way of showing how thrilled you are to be leaving.” Jan looked up from the papers at the desk. “You look nice. Where's hubby taking you?”
I stopped pacing to explain to Jan why I wore a dress that cost more than my first car. And the hand-wringing was a form of prayer that it wouldn’t meet the same fate: sandwiched between two cars in a four-car pile-up. Which, for the dress, would mean wearing whatever had been served at dinner and then, possibly, being rear-ended, so to speak, by a chocolate soufflé with raspberry sauce.
At the end of yesterday's visit, Carl had asked if he could speak to me alone. We sat in the empty office near the rec room.
“I want to apologize for showing my butt out there. I don’t do well with so many people around, not knowing how to act, what to say.” He reached for my hand. “But I want you to know I want you to be better. I promise I’m going to help you with whatever you need. We’ll do this together.”
It had been like a visit from the ghost of Carl past. The caring one. “That means so much to me. I know you’re struggling too. Don’t give up on me, please?”
“Never. You know you’re the most important person in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. He told me not to go anywhere—as if I could—and came back in with a large box.
The package was wrapped with white moiré silk. The red-and white-striped stitched silk ribbon was embellished with a script “NB.” NB for Nan's Boutique where long ago I’d picked up a simple cotton tee, spotted the $125 price tag, and looked around to make sure I wasn’t being “punked.”
That was the first and last time I’d walked through Nan's antique doors, the ones with insets of leaded glass from England. Molly and I figured we could each afford one sleeve of the cotton T-shirt. And that was the end of that as far as my shopping budget was concerned. Carl's mother, however, shopped there so often I’m sure Nan sent monthly thank-you notes to Mr. Thornton.
“So, that's how this dress happened,” Jan said as she walked around the counter for the full-length view.
“When Carl first handed me the box, I prayed that ridiculous white cotton tee wasn’t in it. So, before I opened it, I asked him if the surprise was for our first date, thinking he’d planned something extraordinarily special.” I sighed, readjusted the freshwater pearl necklace we bought in Maui on our honeymoon. Molly had dropped it off earlier.
“And the special is?” Jan twirled her finger in the air; the universal female sign for “turn around slowly so I can examine what you’re wearing.”
I circled in the rhinestone Valentino pumps Molly unearthed in my closet. “Anniversary party for his parents.” The words were drenched in disappointment. “All this—” I looked down the length of the little black dress (what Nan referred to as “LBD”) designed by Stella