Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [71]
“Fine? You didn’t tell me you’re almost blind. I look like—”
“—a recovering alcoholic who just woke up?”
For a swallow of time, I stared at her. Then we convulsed in laughter and headed downstairs.
Several waffles and three cups of coffee later, I learned her name was Gertrude and the silver-haired man from group was her husband, Adam. The woman was a bundle of surprises.
“I’ve never met anyone with the same name as Hamlet's mother. Please tell me they didn’t know that Gertrude.”
She smiled. A sad smile. “You know, in high school, I was that Gertrude. Shallow, promiscuous, manipulating men.” She added more milk to her coffee. “But she drank poison, right?”
I nodded.
“I snorted mine. And I didn’t die.”
It sounded like an apology.
I squirmed. Over-sexed mothers who kill themselves didn’t make for comfortable breakfast conversations. I steered in a different direction.
“Kids in school must have tortured you,” I said.
Her face shed its veil, and she perked up. “They tried.” A light clicked on in her eyes, and she smiled broadly. “When I was almost five, I beat up the kid next door. He called me Turd-trude. My father was so proud. Really. He bragged for years about that. Giving Cole that black eye saved me in kindergarten. In middle school, I added an “i” and told everyone my name was Trudie. And that's what I was until I met Adam.” She looked past me. Her eyes dulled for a few blinks, then the lights turned on again, and she was back. “He called me Tru. Ironic. Considering the drugs and all.”
I didn’t say anything. I figured we’d talk about the “drugs and all” some other time. “I’m glad we bumped into each other.” I hesitated. “I’m embarrassed I didn’t try to talk to you sooner. I thought you’d be different. And you are different … in a good way.”
“I get that a lot.” She laughed as we walked away from depositing our trays. “Hey, it's not like I tried either. Those first few days were such a nightmare, I thought I’d come here to die. Maybe even hoped I would. Jan told me sometimes one day at a time's too unmanageable. So I started just trying to make it five minutes at a time.” She pulled open a door outside the cafeteria.
“That's not a bathroom,” I said.
“I know. Do you take the stairs too?”
“I do now.”
We made it upstairs, but my stomach felt like it was headed another floor up.
“I’m going to lay down for awhile. Not sure breakfast is going to stay with me,” I said.
“Too much exercise?”
Cathryn gazed up from her book. “Oh, hi, Trudie. I heard Leah, but didn’t realize you were with her.”
“We had breakfast together,” Trudie announced like a five-year-old who’d just learned to tie her own shoes.
I pulled my hair away from my neck. “Is it hot in here?”
Trudi placed her hand on my forehead. The coolness felt good. “You do feel warm. Maybe you’re coming down with something.”
Cathryn stuck a pen in the book to mark her place. “Come sit down. I’ll take your temperature. Lord knows, we already have enough diseases around here.” She walked over to the chair where I waited.
“Joke alert, ladies.” She smiled at us, then pointed the thermometer at my mouth.
“Here you go.”
It beeped. 98 degrees.
“Maybe you’ll feel better after you rest,” said Trudie.
“We have antacid chewables. Want to try two of those to settle your stomach?”
“I’ll try the rest first,” I said, and headed to my room.
31
I woke up sad, but I couldn’t remember why.
Sometimes I’d carry pieces of dreams back, and before I got out of bed, I’d arrange them on a table in my mind's eye. I hoped I could find a pattern to help me understand why I felt the way I did, why the feeling followed me from dream to reality.
Today the sadness clung to me. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to face it today. Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest anyway. I could give myself permission to rest from my emotions.
The scritchy feeling that sent me to bed was gone after the two hours I slept. It was