Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [7]
“Me. I told me this.”
The food arrived at the next table. Bacon. The smell pulled me into Sunday morning breakfasts at my parents’ house when I was still in college. When I was still single. When I was still in denial.
Carl sighed, one of those we’ve-been-here-before shallow breath sighs, and raked his fingers over his newly shaved head. Two months ago Carl decided he’d rather have no hair than curly hair. I’m grateful he's not of those lumpy-skulled men who look like they needed spackling to even out the shape.
“I think, Leah, you might be confusing fun at parties with flashback guilt from skipping church.”
He intended the church bait to lure me into one of those dog-chasing-its-tail discussions—lots of activity, but nothing's ever resolved. He's selling church? I wasn’t buying. Carl only appreciated organized religion because it provided a legitimate tax deduction. Church, or at least the building, was a place to be seen, not by God, but by the upwardly mobile faithful. As for me, well, God was on my “To Do” list. Somewhere between watching the grass grow and death.
“Carl, it's not just parties. I drink every day. Not just weekends. And we both know the church thing has nothing to do with alcohol. And I’ve tried to stop drinking …” My fingertips sketched squares on the table as I spoke. The last few words barely escaped my lips.
He floated his napkin over his leftover wedges of pancakes. My weight-conscious husband covered his food to stop himself from overeating. Covering up worked for too many things in his life lately. He’d once uncovered his world to me and to the possibility of a life less rigid, less predictable, less careful.
Our first Christmas morning as newlyweds, Carl brought me breakfast in bed and told me to close my eyes. He placed something on my head. I laughed and asked him if he had a tiara made for his princess.
“Not unless you’re a rodent,” he said. His voice smiled.
I opened my eyes, reached up, and my hands grazed a felt cap with ears. Mickey Mouse ears. He’d arranged for us to spend a week in Disney World: a week he scheduled to begin that very afternoon.
No more Magic Kingdom.
“Real alcoholics can’t stop. You’ve stopped. So, how can you be,” he coughed out, “an alcoholic?” He stacked his plate on top of my empty one. “I have a drink when I come home from work. So you get drunk occasionally. So what? You’re creating a crisis. Plus, rehab? Drastic solution, wouldn’t you say? Do fat people just give up food?”
Carl reached for the carafe. “Wait.” He stopped pouring. “Is this what you and Molly drummed up on your walk this morning? I knew you couldn’t have come up with this ridiculous idea on your own. You’re so easily influenced by people, and you’re so impulsive. Haven’t we talked about this?”
No, we did not talk. He talked. I listened. Again and again and again. “This” translated to “you’re supposed to discuss important issues with me before making a decision.”
I looked past Carl at egg-bomber baby now shaking the contents of his bottle onto the highchair top. A bottle probably filled with the apple juice I left behind. I guess he has a mother who can get through the grocery store without marveling that both beer and diapers can be purchased in a twelve-pack.
“Did you hear what I said?”
I measured his irritation with the yardstick of voice deliberateness. Machine-gun delivery. Code Orange: high annoyance with flashes of impatience. If I persisted, I risked Code Red: anger with ranges from shout to rage. I could retreat. Retreat was as familiar as his rage cycle—a cycle I could both provoke and subdue.
“Of course I heard you.”
“Leah.” A familiar honeyed shift in his voice. Carl reached across the table and held out his hands, his invitation for me to place my hands in his.
“Besides, what's a few drinks? You know how free, how passionate you become when we’re in bed. I think about those things you do …”
I yanked my hands out of his as if he’d scorched them.
Tina reappeared at the perfect