Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [87]
From Trudie: Dear Leah: I’m so glad we actually bumped into each other that day. Who would have thought you and I would cross paths in rehab?! You reminded me not to take myself so seriously. I know I have a long stay ahead of me, so if you ever want to, stop by on visiting day. And you can take Haley with you! (LOL). Take care of yourself. I pray that everything works in your life for good. One day at a time. God be with you always. Love, Tru
When it was time to write my discharge statement, I didn’t know what to write. Jan said it was supposed to be a reflection of what we learned, what the time there meant to us, how we changed, or whatever information we wanted the staff to know. The first attempt read like an essay for my National Boards portfolio. Crumpled that and tossed in the trash. The next one read like a list of things to do and not do in rehab.
Finally, I followed the advice I gave my students when they didn’t know where to start or how to write. I asked Jan for a timer, opened my notebook, started the timer, put my pen on paper and wrote without stopping or thinking or correcting. I just let words flow out of my brain, down my arm, through my fingers, and into my pen. After the ten minutes, I read what presented itself. I revised and reshaped it, then turned it over to Jan. I felt like I’d lived another life in almost thirty days. So much I didn’t know or I would have been more careful. I couldn’t change my past. Maybe it could make a difference in the future for someone else who still had a chance in the present.
Carl turned the corner and pulled into our driveway. Seeing our house again reminded me of Carl's parents. They’d surprised us with it as a wedding present. No. Two untruths in that statement.
Lie #1: Use of the word “us.” Carl had already known about the house and had approved the purchase.
Lie #2: Use of the word “surprise.” See #1.
My surprise was that the house was mostly everything I never wanted in a house. Pretentious and impractical. Too-small kitchen, too-large master bedroom (especially since it was a room I didn’t want to spend time in), detached garage, a formal living room I had no desire to decorate, and no other bedroom downstairs. As in no other bedroom to use as a nursery.
Not long after we knew I was pregnant with Alyssa, I had suggested we convert the living room into a nursery. I’d even sketched a plan for adjoining it to the master. Granted, the drawing was crude. It showed two adjoining rectangles with a one-inch erased section (the doorway) on the common wall. Seemed simple enough to me. Then, when we knew we were having a girl, and there was still no nursery downstairs, I went to Plan B. I told Carl we, really he, since the baby could not endure such gymnastics, needed to practice the up and down trips from our bedroom to the upstairs bedroom closest to the stairs. And I planned to start timing at midnight and two and four and every four hours thereafter. He relented. The architect and contractor appeared on our doorway in two days.
It was the first time Molly jeopardized our friendship. She happened to pop over the night after Carl approved baby land, so I happily explained the plan. With Carl in the kitchen with us, Molly said, “Gosh, you really wouldn’t need to do all that. Your bedroom's so spacious, you could just move the occasional chairs into the living room and use that space for a crib.” Trapped between the skull-drilling stare of my vexation and Carl's benevolent gaze of appreciation, Molly suddenly remembered she had a meeting. Onto Plan C, which involved a modicum of pouting, shouting, and foot-stomping, and the possibility of breath-holding. Alyssa's nursery was completed one month before my due date.
Now, if I hadn’t been sober for almost a month, I would confess I’d heard the house dare me to enter. It never seemed welcoming, and I tried to convince myself the feeling had nothing to do with the oil painting of Carl's parents that I’d placed in the attic for safe-keeping.
We walked in through