Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [70]
My newest victory was that I’d survived Carl-gate. He lied. I called him on it. I woke up Sunday morning in a different bed than the one I’d expected to be in. I don’t know how, but the idea that leaving here overnight included sharing a bed with Carl had failed to emerge on my radar screen. Sooner or later, I’d have to engage in sober sex. This morning, though, I was relieved it was later.
I’d forgotten Sunday mornings were generally quiet since check-in wasn’t until noon. Jan told me last night Cathryn would be working, so I figured it’d just be us girls. I’d be lazy and sloppy until lunch. I didn’t bother changing out of the camisole and plaid boxers I’d fallen asleep wearing.
I wandered to the front, so busy digging crud out of my eyes that I bumped smack into Designer Drugs woman in the hall. “Omph” met “Whoa. Oops.” Followed by the “flump, flump, flump” of magazines meeting the floor.
“So sorry,” I said.
“S’okay. I should know better than to read and walk at the same time.” She bent to pick up the magazines.
“Wait, let me help.” I handed her the last two. “Oh, these are the ones Jan brought in last night.” Vogue, Cosmo, Vanity Fair, Newsweek, and Psychology Today. An eclectic collection. Had Designer Drugs asked for these?
“I didn’t realize you were here. I thought you left on a pass,” she said.
“I did leave. I came back. Long story. I didn’t know you were here either.” After my turkey sandwich, coleslaw, and chips dinner last night, I’d crashed in my room.
“Oh, um, I didn’t have a pass this weekend. I could have, but my husband was out of town, so it didn’t seem to matter.” She passed her hand under her nose, a flutter of a movement.
I pretended not to notice. So generous of me as I stood there with morning mouth, clothes so wrinkled I looked like I rolled down a hill, red slipper socks, and eye gunk I’d wiped on my boxers. Meanwhile, she didn’t stand, she posed, like a woman who felt comfortable in her skin. Her white linen nightshirt fell to her knees. She was prettier plain-faced than she was with make-up.
“I didn’t realize you were married,” I said. Oh, dumb me. Why would I realize that? I hadn’t bothered to utter a syllable to her since she arrived. I didn’t even know her name. Shame on me. Maybe there was a step for this I hadn’t reached yet.
She shifted the magazines. “Do you mind walking with me so I can leave these in my room?”
“No problem.” It wasn’t until we’d walked past my room that I realized she shared a room with Annie. Why had I assumed she had a private room? “So, how's Annie for a roommate?”
“Great, really. We both love to read, so it works out.” She opened the door. “I’ll be right out.”
Slug. I felt like a slug. She was not at all what I’d expected. No, what I’d assumed. I’d judged her with my puny self-esteem. If she’d judged me using her generous self-assurance …
Why did I struggle with friendships with other women? Molly and I met on the equal playing field of age and our husbands’ shared jobs. We’d experienced, through the years, tragedies that bound us to one another. I never felt intimidated by her—and there it was. I’d heard at one of the AA meetings that in our recovery, God revealed truths slowly because we wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of them all at once. Thank you, God, for sparing me the steamroller of guilt.
She popped out wearing khaki shorts, a sleeveless celery v-necked sweater, and white flip flops. Cute. Instead of the fitness trainer-toned body I assumed she’d have, her clothes had disguised legs and arms that were thin and knobby. Everyone has a story to tell. Another poster in my classroom. Time for the teacher to become the student?
“Want to see what we can find for breakfast? I’m starving,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
“Sure. I’ll need to change. Meet you at the desk,” I said.
“You look fine. I looked like a ghost in that nightshirt.