Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [94]
On the ride home, I told Carl about Rebecca, how I met her, and what it meant for her to be my sponsor. If I shared information in pieces, eventually the whole puzzle would come together. After all, who could assemble a 500-piece puzzle all at once?
Sure, God could, but He’d already assembled the entire universe. Bang or no Bang. Somebody had to make the parts ahead of time and know exactly where they’d fit when everything settled.
I dumped one too many pieces out of the box, but I wanted Carl to understand about the 90/90, especially since I’d be leaving the house that night to attend my first post-rehab meeting.
“Making ninety consecutive meetings in ninety days is committing to sobriety and to the program. It's important. Especially now that we’re going to have a baby. Staying sober is more important than ever. The Serenity Club has Al-Anon meetings on some nights at the same time as AA meetings. We could go together.”
“Let me think about the meetings. You’re hitting me with a lot right now.”
“Well, just think about Al-Anon meetings.”
“Another nonnegotiable … this 90/90 thing?”
“Yes, but I’m already taking a sabbatical next school year. I’ll be free to attend meetings during the day. They don’t have to cut into our time.”
“Fine, fine. Whatever works.” He reminded me of movies where the sound track is off, and the actor's mouth isn’t in sync with the words.
Another first. Driving myself to an AA meeting. Big girl Leah. I did feel alone walking through the doors after weeks of being spilled in with the gang. I looked around for familiar Brookforest faces, but Rebecca told me they’d attended an earlier nonsmokers meeting.
“I thought that would end with my discharge. Guess Trudie's holding her own.” I laughed imagining Doug when he heard they weren’t stopping those.
Rebecca gave me a quick hug. “How's it going?”
“How much time do you have?” I wished I hadn’t promised Carl I’d be home right after the meeting. Just being in the room provided emotional weight loss. Not that the problems disappeared, but I knew I was surrounded by people who understood.
“Based on the expression on your face, I don’t have that much time,” she grinned. “We’re supposed to meet for lunch tomorrow. Let's meet thirty minutes earlier, and we can use that as dumping time. How's that sound?”
“Like a gift from God. Thank you,” I said.
From the front of the room, Charles hit the gavel a few times. “Let's get started. My name is Charles, and I’m an alcoholic. By the grace of God and the fellowship of this program, I’ve been sober eight years, five months, and twenty-two days.”
“Hi, Charles.”
“Any newcomers here tonight who’d like to introduce themselves?”
“Hello. My name is Leah, and I’m an alcoholic.”
39
Week One. Every day was like walking through a minefield. Help was always a prayer or phone call away, but the temptations were usually only inches away.
I expected to be challenged when I first went to the grocery. Not only was alcohol available, but in the drunk days, I carried a drink with me in a Styrofoam cup or one from any number of fast food places to hide the olives. Now, in recovery, I faced aisles of gin, vodka, rum, scotch, bourbon, whiskey, tequila, liqueurs, beer, and wine—just to name the biggies. Both sides of the aisle offered dozens of labels of each. In one store, I noticed aisles with the alcohol and wine weren’t only a tad wider, their floors were highly polished wood, the shelves more substantial, and the bottles neatly displayed.
I wasn’t even safe in the big box stores. They not only sold all of the above, they often had sampling stations that featured wine or liqueurs. Avoiding the aisles, obvious choice. I felt ambushed by the aproned sample ladies who were placed all over the store. Shaped like squeeze-doll grandmas, they’d croon, “Can