Walking on Broken Glass
Walking
on
Broken Glass
Walking on Broken Glass
Copyright © 2010 by Christa Allan
ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-0227-3
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,
stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or
transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic,
scanning, photocopy, recording or otherwise—without written
permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in
printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the
creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or
dead is purely coincidental.
Published in association with WordServe Literary Group, Ltd.,
10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130
Cover design by Anderson Design Group, Nashville, TN
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Allan, Christa.
Walking on broken glass / Christa Allan.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4267-0227-3
1. African American women—Fiction. 2. Women alcoholics—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.L4125W35 2010
813’.6 — dc22
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 15 14 13 12 11 10
In memory of my precious grandson
Bailey Ramon Cadoree
who taught me how to live
April 23–May 24, 2000
Contents
Acknowledgments
Patient Discharge Statement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
You’re holding my dream. Because of the thin threads God wove to connect people, places, and events, it became a reality—a reality that far outshone the one I’d always imagined. But then that's what makes God awesome.
Henry David Thoreau said, “If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” My castle has been built; now I’d like to introduce you to everyone responsible for its foundation.
To my five children:
Michael: purveyor of medical information and father of Emma and Hannah, my delightful grandgirls whose smiles remind me what's truly important.
Erin: my ever-patient Google-girl, formatter, critiquer, and finder of minutiae, who endured listening to me whine and fret, and still answered my calls. Bless you, Andrae, my generous son-in-law, for sacrificing your time with Erin so she could help me.
Shannon: without you, I wouldn’t know Marc Jacobs from Mark Twain, and I certainly would be a fashion nightmare, as would my characters. I’m learning to walk in high heels, I promise. Your humor provided my stress-relief.
Sarah: you spent time with puzzles and books without complaining while Mommy wrote. You also learned how to fix my coffee; you’re a trooper.
John: I’ve followed your Facebook rules, so now it's your turn to make good on your promise to marry Oprah so I can score a guest spot. Or, you can use your influence and book me on the Les Miles show. In the meantime, thanks for being you.
To my brother, Johnny Bassil, who loved me when I wasn’t lovable; your support has been my anchor. To Carolyn Ekman, my mother-in-law, for your calls, your company, and your kindnesses.
To Carrie Randolph, who knew about this novel when it was a baby, and whose enthusiasm gave me the courage to keep typing. You’ve traveled so many roads with me; your friendship has been a generous gift. To Shelley Easterling Gay whose lesson-sharing saved me during my writing marathons and whose feedback I respected. You and Carrie put the brain in my storm. To Melissa Strata-Burger and Carole Jordan for readings on demand. To the GNO group for monthly sanity dinners and girl-talk.
Dennis and Rhonda Stelly and Linda Moffett: for harboring us after Hurricane Katrina.
To my Barbe High School students, for encouraging my dream. To my Fontainebleau High School extended family, for nurturing and celebrating it, and to Lakeshore High School's staff and students, for being a part of its arrival.
Thanks to: Cheryl Wyatt, my constant cheerleader when I first dared to write. Lisa Samson, whose critique of this novel in its early stages pushed me forward. Jessica Ferguson for insisting I attend an ACFW Conference, and to Mary DeMuth for reaching out and giving me hope.
A venti-sized thanks to Rachelle Gardner of WordServe Literary, my dynamic and industrious agent, who “got” Leah. Your phone call changed my life. You walk me off ledges, steer me back to writing, and teach me how to be a professional in this business.
To Barbara Scott, my fearless and tireless editor at Abingdon Press, who championed this novel: I admire your faith, appreciate your tenacity, and enjoy your friendship. You believed in Leah, and I will be forever grateful. Thank you for your expertise in bringing her story to life.
To Peggy Shearon, Fiction Publicist, and all those at Abingdon: thank you for all you do to bring our novels to readers.
To my husband, Ken: You played more golf, cooked more meals, and watched more movies so you could disappear during deadlines and I could focus on writing. Your confidence in me gave me courage. Your goofy jokes made me laugh when I wanted to cry. And when I didn’t believe in myself, you did, and you let me lean on you until my belief could stand on its own. I’m so grateful for the ways you’ve blessed my life.
And to everyone who reads this novel, thank you for turning these pages.
Patient Discharge Statement
If I had known children break on the inside and the cracks don’t surface until years later, I would have been more careful with my words.
If I had known some parents don’t live to watch grandchildren grow, I would have taken more pictures and been more careful with my words.
If I had known couples can be fragile and
want what they are unprepared to give or unwilling to take, I would have been more careful with my words.
If I had known teaching lasts a lifetime and students don’t speak of their tragic lives, I would have been more careful with my words.
If I had known my muscles and organs and bones and skin are not lifetime guarantees, that when broken, snagged, unstitched, or unseemly, cannot be replaced, I would have been kinder to the shell that prevents my soul from leaking out.
If I had known I would live over half my life and have to look at photographs to remember my mother adjusting my birthday party hat so that my father could take the picture that sliced the moment out of time—if I had known, if I had known—I would have been more careful with my life.
Leah T.
August 4
1
Cruising the sparkling aisles of Catalano's Supermarket, I lost my sanity buying frozen apple juice.
Okay, so maybe it started several aisles before the refrigerated cases. Somewhere between the canned vegetables and cleaning supplies. I needed to kill the taste of that soy milk in my iced vanilla latte. Darn my friend Molly, the dairy Nazi. I blamed her for my detour to the liquor aisle. Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. What to pour in my Starbucks cup? Amaretto? Kahlua? Vodka? And the winner was … Amaretto. Perfect for an afternoon grocery event.
Ramping up the coffee seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. I’d left the end-of-the-year faculty party and thought I’d be a considerate wife and pick up dinner for Carl on the way home. He told me before he left for work that morning that he’d meet me at the party. Probably he had one too many meetings, which, since I’d probably had one too many beers, made us just about even. Don’t know if we matched spin cycles in our brains, though. That was the point of the coffee. A rinse cycle of sorts.
I’d just avoided a game of bumper carts with the oncoming traffic in the organic food aisle when I remembered that I needed juice. On the way to the freezer section, I maneuvered a difficult curve around the quilted toilet tissue display. My coffee sloshed in the cup in tempo with my stomach. I braked too swiftly by the refrigerator case, and a wave of latte splotched my linen shorts and newly pedicured toes. Ick.
Rows of orange juice. Apple juice was on the third shelf down. I reached in and, like a one-armed robot, I selected and returned can after can of juice, perplexed by the dilemma of cost versus quality. Okay, this one's four cents an ounce cheaper than this one. But this one's …
My face would have reflected my growing agitation, but the stale icy air swirling out of the freezer numbed it. I held the door open with one hand, tried to sip my coffee with the other, and wondered how long it would take before full body paralysis set in. I stared at apple juice cans. They stared back. Something shifted, and my body broke free from a part of itself, and there I was—or there we were. I watched me watch the cans. The rational me separated from the wing-nut me, who still pondered the perplexities of juice costs. Rational me said, “Let's get her out of here before she topples head first into the freezer case and completely humiliates herself.”
I abandoned my cart, a lone testament to my struggle and defeat, near the freezer cases and walked away. If I could fill my brain with alcohol like I filled my car with gas, it wouldn’t have to run on empty. It wouldn’t leave me high and dry in the middle of a grocery store aisle.
No, not dry this time. High. My brain is either high or dry, and it doesn’t seem to function well either way.
So that was my epiphany for sobriety.
Apple juice.
2
Carl was late, too late to watch me as I weaved my way from garage to bedroom.
What was today?
Friday. Forgot.
Carl's poker night. Reprieve.
I opened my bedroom closet door and considered changing into my scrubs, but that would’ve meant negotiating a path to the laundry room to pull them out of the dryer. Since I’d submerged my internal GPS in an Amaretto bath, I doubted I’d make it. The T-shirt and shorts I wore would do just fine. I peeled away the layers of comforter and blankets on my side and let the sheets tug the weight of my weariness into bed.
Two bathroom visits later, I felt the mattress concede as Carl's body plowed onto his side of our bed. As usual, he reached his arm toward me, his right hand landing on my hip. As usual, I didn’t move and waited for the morning.
I woke up a rumpled mess, still wearing my coffee-stained shorts and black tee. I didn’t need a mirror to know my flat-ironed hair was smashed to my head, except for the twisted front bangs, which stood off my forehead in a lame salute. The sunlight from the bay window drilled through my eyelids. I slapped my face into the pillow but instantly regretted disturbing what could only be tiny thunderbolts in my brain. I needed to see a doctor. I woke up with far too many head throbs.
I felt the swaddled tightness as I rolled over. Carl always tucked in the sheet on his side of the bed as if to prevent me from rolling out. I turned toward the empty space on the other side of the bed to escape the sharpshooter sun.
I plucked the note left on his pillow. Thin, angular letters: “Golf at 8. Call Molly.” At the bottom, smaller print but all caps: “LET YOU SLEEP. CAN’T WAIT FOR YOU TONIGHT.” I shoved the note under his pillow and tried not to breathe in the whisper of his musky orange cologne.
Why did I remember what I wanted to forget, yet forget what I wanted to remember?
I stared at the ceiling, my eyes stung by my own thoughtlessness. Molly was probably geared up for major annoyance. Saturday mornings were reserved for our two -mile trek through the greenbelt trails of Brookforest. Late was not a time on her clock. I still wore my watch, and late ticked away: 9:00.
Molly Richardson and I met two years ago at the Christmas party for Morgan Management. Both of our husbands had recently joined the firm. She and I had barreled into the bathroom, about as much as one could barrel in ruffled silk chiffon and elastic-backed, three-inch spiked shoes. We crashed reaching for the door handle.
Molly grabbed the knob, steadied herself, scanned me, and said, “We have to stop meeting like this. People will talk.”
A woman with a sense of humor and cool shoes in the midst of granite-faced consultants. Our friendship had expanded since then beyond the boundaries of business. We knew almost everything there was to know about each other. Almost everything.
I willed myself to vertical and plodded to the phone on Carl's side of the bed. One of our concessions after we moved into this house: blinding sun in my eyes; ringing phone in his ears.
I punched in Molly's number.
One ring. “You up?” she said.
“Meet you there in fifteen.” I hung up knowing Molly would understand that fifteen meant twenty. I yanked on clean shorts and a sports bra, but kept the leftover T-shirt from yesterday. Yesterday. Apple juice. Was today the day I would practice not drinking? Did I pay for groceries? No bags on the kitchen counter. A half bagel waited on a plate.
I passed on breakfast and grabbed my keys from the top of the washing machine. Carl really needed to hang a key rack. I locked the leaded glass doors, unlocked the wrought-iron gate, and walked through a gauntlet of Tudor and French provincial houses. Molly and I always met at the cul-de-sac entrance to the trails at the end of my street.
Molly was in her ready zone. She alternated long, bouncing genuflects to stretch her legs.
“I’m always amazed that your calves are almost as long as my legs,” I said and slid the fuzzy banana-yellow headband hanging around my neck to around my head to tame my disobedient hair.
“Save that for one of your hyperbole lessons.” A tint of anger edged her words.
“Hey, Moll, I’m sorry. Carl forgot to wake me up when he left for golf this morning.”
“It's his fault you’re late?” I knew tone, and her tone definitely indicated she thought exactly the opposite. “Did he wake you up for school too?”
Sarcasm lesson. “Sometimes,” I said.
She smiled.
I moved close to forgiveness. “Okay, almost always.”