Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [65]
“Maybe it's more like who do they think you are,” Jan said. She answered the phone. “You’re about to find out, Cinderella. Prince Charming's on his way up.”
Carl, as my grandmother would say, cleaned up nicely. I’d forgotten the transforming power of a man's suit, especially one tailored for him.
He walked over, stood in front of me, and, with unfamiliar gentleness, he reached out and cradled my elbows in his hands. “You look beautiful,” he whispered and leaned in for a velvet soft kiss on my cheek. I captured the moment in the net of memory. He smelled like promise and comfort. My hands touched his chest and read the invitation of longing and belonging.
“So do you,” I said.
He grinned. A genuine grin. An expression I’d not seen in a long time.
I signed the paperwork for my first night out, then Jan handed Carl my overnight bag.
“You two kids be good and enjoy yourselves.” Jan gave me a quick hug. She tapped Carl on the shoulder. “Remember, Cinderella needs to be back tomorrow by noon. Don’t be late.”
“No problem. She’ll be here. I promise.” He held out his hand. “Are you ready?”
I’m sucked back in time. Dr. Foret. Delivery room. “Ten centimeters, fully effaced. Let's rock and roll. It's baby time.” He moved to the end of my bed. “Are you ready?”
I’m thinking, “Wait, wait. Let me think about this. I’m not ready. My life will never be the same. Five more minutes, please.” But, of course, I don’t say any of this. I take all the fears, roll them up, and mentally send them to my brain's trash icon.
I had looked at Carl and squeezed his hand.
I had told Dr. Foret, “You bet. Let's do this.”
A lifetime later.
I looked at Carl. I squeezed his hand.
“You bet. Let's do this.”
“I remembered you weren’t allowed perfume. I brought your Hanae Mori. It's in the car.”
“Thanks.”
We stood side-by-side, not touching, except for the prickly current connecting my naked arm to his Armani suit. I channeled the electricity surging between us into my hands, tightening my grip on my Judith Leiber clutch. McCartney, Valentino, Leiber, and a perfume whose name was barely pronounceable. I’d spent almost two weeks in excruciating introspection, and tonight, in less than an hour, a blitzkrieg of designers annihilated my identity.
I handed Carl my clutch when the security guard at the door asked to see my identification. I pulled the hospital's white plastic bracelet out from under my silver and rhinestone cuff.
“Can she take that thing off just for tonight?” Carl's voice didn’t suppress his irritation.
I knew the answer, but Carl didn’t ask me.
“Sure, she can take that fancy jewelry off anytime.” Mr. Jacobs rubbed his grizzly gray hair and man-giggled. He’d cracked himself up.
“Never mind. Was that all you need from her?” Carl handed Judith back to me. Without waiting for Mr. Jacobs's answer, Carl said, “Wait here. I’ll get the car,” and power-walked outside. After the doors sucked closed behind him, I turned to Mr. Jacobs. “Sorry. We’re still looking for his sense of humor.”
“Mrs. Thornton, right? I’ve heard worse and seen worse in all my years here. You don’t need to apologize for him.”
Why didn’t I think of that?
Because if you would’ve thought of that on your own you probably wouldn’t be here.
God, who belongs to that voice? And where's she been with all this insight?
You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. Not yet.
The headlights of Carl's car curled around the entry.
Part of me wished Mr. Jacobs would refuse to release me. Then, through no fault of my own, I’d be forced to stay. But, no, that's alcoholic Leah.
Recovering Leah knows fear stands for false expectations appearing real.
No fear. No fear. No fear.
Courage to change the things I can.
“Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Thornton. Remember—one day at a time.”
“Bye. Have a good night.”
I gathered the parts of me and crossed the threshold.
One small victory.
One small victory at a time.
Carl