Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [77]
I didn’t call Dr. Foret, even though he’d delivered Alyssa. Nothing about her death was his fault, but I couldn’t help that seeing him made me think of her. Trey recommended Dr. Bethany Nolan, a friend from his med school days. They arranged for her to come to Brookforest for my first appointment. Her first words to me were, “Well, now this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself in,” and then made me promise we’d never have to have another appointment at Brookforest. When she laughed, she shook her head, her braids swayed and remind me of Theresa. Oh, and she told me she didn’t mind that I was white. She estimated the due date somewhere between December 24 and January 3.
Then there was the vomiting issue. Between using the cafeteria food and some “virus thing” as excuses, I managed to explain the morning sickness away. I also learned I was not the center of the rehab universe because apparently not as many people tracked my visits to the bathroom as I might have thought.
And then there was Carl. The family session after Carl-gate and my surprise news worked out for several reasons because: 1) my father wasn’t there; 2) Carl arrived five minutes before and left five minutes after the session; and 3) Trudie, Adam, and Adam's daughter shared therapy spotlight with Theresa and her long-absent husband.
We started that night by saying the Serenity Prayer. Then, instead of just opening the floor for “check ups from the neck ups,” Trey said he was conducting an informal survey. “I want everyone to participate. Be honest. I promise, you’ll find out how much more we’re all alike than we are different.” He asked how many of us knew alcoholism was already in our families, not counting the person in the room they were visiting. Almost every hand shot up in the air. One by one, we just said the relationship of the alcoholic—fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, siblings—and realized we were all parts of short or long family chains of drinkers.
“Remember these two words: genetic predisposition. We may not have control over the genes that are passed to us or that we pass on. But here's what you can control—the example you’re going to be for your family.”
When he asked how many of the people we just mentioned were in recovery, only two hands raised. “See the connection here? If you don’t stop the chain right now, who will? That's why these groups are vital for families. So, good for you—for all of you—for making the decision to be here tonight.”
And then it was “start your dysfunctional engines” time.
The couple with Trudie and her husband at the last family session was her sister and her husband. This week, Haley, Adam's Mean Girls-wannabe thirteen-year-old daughter decided to participate. When she didn’t talk, Haley was a terrific kid. Mostly, she accused Trudie of marrying her father because he was rich enough to afford the drugs she needed.
“He's spending our money on this place. There's no guarantee this is going to work, right? How is that a good investment? And I have to consider my options for college.” She alternately whined and sassed. Adam, literally and figuratively stuck between his wife and his daughter, kept asking what he could do to make everything better. On some level, I felt sorry for him because he was faced with a problem that couldn’t be solved by throwing money at it. By the end of the night, though, I think he would have been happy to throw money at Haley—huge sacks of it.
Jules, Theresa's husband, sported wavy black hair, combed back, but not an oil slick. His eyes occupied most of his angular face. Before group started, he stroked Theresa's new hair and whispered something in her ear that made her giggle and then slap him on the arm. The kind of slap that invited him to repeat whatever he