Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [75]
“So, they must have been proud of the woman you became.”
“I guess. Most of my life I just did what they wanted me to do. I’d get wild ideas about stuff—like wanting to be a cheerleader or learning how to play the piano—and we’d have these family meetings. Cheerleader was definitely out. They made me realize I had no chance. They gave in on the piano lessons. But I didn’t always practice, and eventually I quit. Unfortunately, they’d remind me about that fiasco when I had some other bright idea.” I stopped to blow my nose again.
“When I said I wanted to attend college, they freaked out. Asking me over and over if I was sure I wanted to do that and reassuring me I could change my mind.”
We talked about my father, my relationship with him then and now. I wanted Ron to see my father as I did. “He’d help our neighbors build decks or donate money to every kid who came around selling junk for school. If I was out late, even in college and still living with them, I called home. He didn’t want me to drive in the city at night because it wasn’t safe. He still tries to protect me. He’ll send me an airline ticket so I won’t drive the six hours to his house alone.
“My dad's close to Carl. He likes that they can talk football, play golf, and fish. He told me Carl was a ‘man's man.’ But he’d joke around with Carl about how he’d take him out if he ever hurt me.”
Ron unfolded his arms and picked up his legal pad. “I know this has been a tough session. We have a lot left to uncover, but I think I understand now why you married Carl.”
I stood to stretch the numbness in my backside for using it so long. “Oh, I thought it was simple. I married him because I loved him.”
“And you loved him because he reminded you of your father.”
32
I left Ron's office with one thought: get to my room, lie on my bed, and prevent myself from thinking for as long as possible. I stared at the ceiling, afraid to close my eyes because movies I couldn’t stop played in my head. With my eyes open, I could count the holes in the ceiling tiles. If I focused on mindless activity, I could put my brain on a continuous loop, like when the computer's hourglass stays and stays and stays.
But none of it worked for me. My brain wanted to hit “control-alt-delete.” End the task. Start over. Maybe I could control the information. Let a few pieces out at a time. Process and move on. Process and move on. Next. Next. Next.
If I married Carl because he reminded me of my father, then who did I remind Carl of? That piece of information definitely had to go back and wait its turn. I mentally smashed it into the steel “waiting” bin in my brain.
Maybe I could sleep. At this point, sleep was as close as I was going to get to numbness. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a strategy with much long-term usefulness like those “tools” Ron talked about. Voluntary narcolepsy was not going to help if I planned a vertical life.
Knock. Knock-knock-knock.
Something new to count.
Knock-knock-knock.
Was there a voice attached to this hand? Oh, maybe it thinks I’m asleep.
The doorknob turned. Slowly and squeakily. Like the one in horror movies. Maybe they’re all the same doorknob. Like Carl was my father.
“Leah?” My name sounded like a question. My eyes were still closed, but I recognized Cathryn's voice. “Are you sleeping?”
Wasn’t that question on the universal list of dumb questions? I’m postponing the inevitable. At some point, I won’t be sleeping when she asks that question. It might as well be now. “Do you want me to be sleeping? I can be. I’d rather be.” I opened my eyes. Ceiling hole number 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9 …
“No, I don’t want you to be sleeping right now. I want to talk to you before everyone comes back from group.