Walking on Broken Glass Read online

  A surge of craving. I wanted to go home. Not home, really, as in the two-story, blackmail-in-waiting Tudor, our wedding gift from Carl's parents, Landon and Gloria. Home was that place wine or gin could bring me to. The place where I didn’t have to feel. Where I could be someplace without really ever leaving where I was. Numbness, the friend I relied on, wasn’t invited to this place. Party's over.

  I scratched the top of my left hand with my right so vigorously that snail-sized red welts formed. Carl hated when I did that. I did that a lot.

  Jan's cool, tapered fingers softly pressed my hand. “Stop. You’re about to draw blood.” She reached around with her left arm and gently hugged me, all the while holding my hand still.

  For the first time I noticed we were about the same height, but she seemed fragile and light. She probably bought shoes, maybe even her clothes, in the tween department. Short dark-brown layers framed her face—a cut not too many women since Audrey Hepburn could pull off, but Jan did and did it well. Without the black-framed oval glasses she wore, she’d look like a twelve-year-old.

  Her brown eyes scanned me. Were they hooked up to a monitor somewhere?

  She gestured in the direction of a sofa. “Let's sit. Are you hungry? I can order a tray for you or you can get ice cream. We keep it stocked here on the floor. What do you want?”

  Given a choice between nutrition and ice cream? What a place: legitimate ice cream. It's not gin, but it qualified as comfort food. Two Nutty Buddy cones later, I learned I had arrived at the beginning of the month when most new patients checked in and old ones checked out. The ones in between were on weekend leave and due back in less than an hour. All of the patients on the floor smoked. I could ask for a time when the room could be a no-smoking place, an hour or so during the day, Jan told me, but I figured that would have been a quick trip to Nerdville and wouldn’t win me the patient of the month award. Not a good way to start.

  Matthew walked over. “You just earned your badge from the suitcase inspection department. Jan's going to show you to your room. We’ll give you some time to settle in, then we’ll go over the game plan for the next seventy-two hours, okay?”

  We all understood my “okayness” didn’t really matter. But I figured it would be dumb to be rude to the person who could be my ice cream supplier for the duration of my stay. Jan and I peeled ourselves off the couch, and she led the way to the room.

  Welcome to drabness. Two twin beds with navy blue corded bedspreads separated by a white nightstand with a lamp. A standard, hospital-sized closet and a bathroom with questionable lighting. The one six-drawer dresser squatted across from the beds. A student-sized desk with a small lamp perched on its corner faced the only window.

  My suitcases and purse waited on the bed—the one closest to the bathroom. One plus for early arrival.

  “Your roommate's due to arrive tomorrow, so you’ll have the space to yourself tonight. A few of the other patients will be coming back soon. Go ahead and unpack, settle in, and I’ll be back later. Don’t leave the room until I come back.”

  If Nurse Jan and her posse knew I was gloriously grateful for the freedom and securely comforted by the safety provided by two very large, very locked, and very bolted steel doors, they might have transferred me upstairs to the psych floor.

  I’d grown up sharing a room with my grandmother to sharing a room with Carl. Finally, I was all by myself. The fact that I was placed on a twenty-four-hour watch stifled my temptation to break into a happy dance, which for me would have been more of a herky-jerky happy dance (there was definitely a reason my mother didn’t name me Grace). Jan would have charted that movement as the beginning of my DTs—delirium tremens.

  I eased into my faded black sweatpants and my equally worn-out school T-shirt and purposely fell backward onto the twin bed, a bed I could roll around and over in. A pillow, well, actually rectangle-shaped foam parading as a pillow, but, no matter. I could smash it and bunch it and fold it relentlessly, recklessly. Even the milky-white institutional sheets, grainy like the finest of sandpapers, reassured me of the almost impossibility of slipping out of the bed.

  The city's annual Independence Day display squelched my one-woman celebration of freedom. The night belched ribbons of emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. Sizzling colors exploded—some whining and screeching in protest—then pulsated one last time before they surrendered themselves to the sky. I sandwiched the pathetic little pillow under my head and would have been content to enjoy my window view of the fireworks except that I started feeling like lit bottle rockets had thrust themselves into my brain through my ears. Were aspirins allowed in this place? Surely they didn’t expect me to pull myself off every medication. I had no clue how to help myself.

  Jan had closed the door almost an hour ago. Now, not only was my head cracking open, but the Nutty Buddy cones were trying to work their way back up. No telephone in the room. Not like I could call room service. Was I supposed to knock on the door to get out?

  Between rocket bursts, I heard voices, then laughter. I knocked on the door. It was a pathetic, ninny knock, obviously attracting no one since the laughter continued. The thought occurred to me that they might be laughing and wondering why the blazes I just didn’t open the door. The sour taste in my mouth competed for attention with the brain reverberations. I wanted to pound the door down with my fists, scream, and run.

  I felt stupid for being so obedient. Always the good girl. And, wow, if my friends could see me now.

  My knuckles vibrated from banging on the door. I paused and heard the measured swish of feet. The doorknob turned, and Jan called my name. She found me, a human lump kneeling on the floor, my butt on my feet, my arms wrapped around my waist, surrounded by vomit.

  Journal 3

  When I could step outside of my torture, I could see that Carl truly couldn’t understand. That he thought giving myself to him shouldn’t be an act of obligation or disgust, but one of gratitude and anticipation and joy.

  Sometimes, I felt his confusion. Yet, as time drifted by, he seemed to care less and less about what I felt. I was willing to admit fault. I couldn’t open my planner and point to a time, a day, a month, or even a year when I could say, “Here, this is the time it started to go badly. Here is the day, and this is what happened.”

  No. Even before our loss, it was something so undefined, so gradual, so vague—like a cancer—it metastasized undetected, but, at some point, its malignance made itself known.

  To survive the daily dread, the knowing that every night would be a useless struggle with demons, I numbed myself. Over and over and over.

  8

  Retching up your insides was probably not high on the “Getting to Know You” guide for patient/staff relationships. My putrid mess shocked me, but it didn’t surprise Jan; in fact, she expected it.

  A cleaner version of me emerged from the bathroom and found Jan had already cleaned and somehow fumigated the room. Jan's eyes snapped to meet mine. She stared for an instant, but long enough to make me squirm. Was it my hair? Dried naturally, it frizzed and curled around my ears, like poodle hair on steroids. I’d scrubbed my body raw, removed every remnant of makeup, and slipped into a clean outfit.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said and looked around for some way to help. “I would’ve helped you clean up.” Already I needed someone to clean up after me. Carl's voice saying, “can’t take care of yourself,” pulsated through my veins and adjusted to the rhythm of my heart. Every beat reminded me of my irresponsibility. What if he was right? “I’m really embarrassed,” I said.

  “Leah, most symptoms of alcohol withdrawal happen within seventy-two hours after that last drink. From what I’ve read on your intake chart, you were in mid-stage dependency. For the next two or three days you’ll probably feel shaky, tired, have killer headaches and nausea and vomiting,” she said.

  “Or you may not.” Jan shrugged her shoulders, pulled the cord to close the laundry bag, and shoved it into a basket that she had brought in afte
r finding me on the floor. “But it's not unusual for patients to not want to eat or sleep. Sometimes they feel a roller coaster of emotions from being really irritated to being really excited.”

  “I can’t wait. And the good news is?” Pouty sarcasm tinged the question. I’m already wearing Day 2's outfit on Day 1. Molly and I definitely didn’t factor in these unexpected wardrobe changes when we were busy figuring out the definition of “appropriate recreational clothing.”

  My whining yanked Jan to a standing position. “The good news? Let's start with you’re alive. You’re not having violent seizures. You’re not in a coma, and you’re not having to be sedated so you won’t injure yourself or someone else. Have you ever watched someone experience delirium tremens? No, of course not. More good news. And—” She shifted forward, held the basket with one hand, and pointed at me with the other—“you’re here. That's the best news of all.”

  She handed me a small book pulled from the pocket of her scrubs. “Here, this is yours. I was supposed to give it to you tomorrow, but I think you could use it now. Write your name in it and today's date so you don’t forget tonight. Matthew will stop by when he's finished checking in everyone from their weekend passes. He’ll talk to you about tomorrow. After that, it's lights out.”

  I sat cross-legged on the bed. Jan walked over and placed The Promise of a New Day on the nightstand. She gently patted my knee, “I’ll see you in the morning. Remember, one day at a time.”

  She and the cart squeaked out of my room. I picked up the book of daily meditations. On the raspberry cover, a woman with long, flowing hair and outstretched arms faced a bright yellow sun the size of a half-dollar. Puffy white clouds separated the woman from the sun.

  Seriously? Will I be doomed to cheesy as a sober person? But a book with melodrama-woman on the cover beat out no book. Sadly, it also trumped Anna Karenina. I’d dragged Anna along, all eight-hundred pages, because of a subconscious need to punish myself or to pose as a breezy intellectual. I remembered Molly lifted the novel and asked if it would be a doorstop.

  I found a cheap plastic pen in the nightstand drawer: white with The Brookforest Center imprinted in black. I imagined not too many of those left the center. It would, though, be a great conversation piece. I could tell people the center provided free treatment, but their pen cost over fifty-thousand dollars. But then the only audience for that humor was probably already outside the door of my room.

  Changing into my pink scruffy terrycloth robe, I wiggled under the covers, propped my marshmallow pillow against the headboard, and leaned back. I neatly printed my name and the date on the first page and stuck the pen back in the drawer. I opened to today's date, July 4, and read Judy Grahn's quote, “She walks around all day quietly, but underneath it all she's electric angry energy inside a passive form. The common woman is as common as a thunderstorm.”

  Matthew told me the next day that he had found me curled on my side, snoring, clutching the meditation book close to my chest.

  Journal 4

  I struggled to stay awake every night—read books, watched mindless television programs and movies so old they were monochromes, drank mugs of coffee, waited until I could be sure he’d fallen asleep— and then I could ghost myself into the bedroom.

  I quietly switched off the lights in the den and hoped he had left the bedroom door open. I always made an effort to avoid causing the door hinges to moan or else the sound would stir him. After I softly shuffled to the bed, I lifted the sheet and blanket ever so carefully. Then, I lightly perched on the edge of the bed, testing, as my weight shifted the balance.

  Feeling no perceptible movement, I raised my bare feet from the carpeted floor in an orchestrated, practiced ballet. Like minute hands on a clock, my feet quietly ticked their way to the bed. I’d lie on my left side, facing empty space so my shallow breaths wouldn’t stir the dead air. My head barely grazed the pillow—no sudden movements—everything achingly slow, but fluid. I waited, still, corpse-like, waited for a stir, a shift in body weight. I dared not allow myself the luxury of expansive breathing until his snoring was rhythmic and offensively solid.

  Some nights my protective and routine concert was successful. I’d wake up in the same position I’d so carefully arranged myself in during the darkness.

  Many nights I failed.

  9

  A knock on the door woke me from a sleep interrupted by frequent trips to the bathroom. I didn’t know if I should hang my head over the toilet or sit on it. Angry tidal waves of headaches crashed against the shore of my skull. I didn’t remember reading about a wake-up service or midnight parties. My mind needed more time to rouse itself than my body. I opened and closed my eyes while my brain rummaged through its files for something recognizable. Home? No. Beach house? No. Uh-oh? Yes.

  I untangled myself from the web of sheets, blanket, and bedspread that had crept up during the night and scarfed my body. I sat in bed, hugged my knees to my chest, and stared through the darkness.

  How long had I slept? I smiled at the question, knowing my mother's response would have been, “Doesn’t matter. God never sleeps.” For most of my life, I imagined God suffered from eternal insomnia. No wonder He would, one day, stage Armageddon in an act of horrific vengeance. He’d been sleep-deprived by mothers for centuries.

  No matter what earthly horror had been inflicted upon me, I depended on my mother's soothing pronouncement to wrap itself around my damaged ego. “God never sleeps” was my maternal shield against the worldly infidels, a no-nonsense ointment to heal my emotional bruises. It was a global warning for friends turned traitors, boys who never called, and employers who manipulated. I comforted myself with the promise of heavenly havoc when the offender reached God, assuming the possibility existed that would allow such a cruel person to reach that height.

  I had no doubt my mother watched my life unfold or, maybe, unravel. She’d probably jab God in the stomach with that manicured hand of hers just in case, in a surprising spiritual snafu, He might nod off when her daughter needed Him.

  Let the jabbing begin.

  Another knock, this time accompanied by an unrecognizable female voice, “Breakfast in a half hour.” I rubbed my right hand over my bare left wrist as if doing so could magically make my watch appear. Funny how you become so accustomed to the feel and weight of things on your body—the clunky stainless steel watch, the diamond and emerald tennis bracelet— like that phantom pain sensation amputees felt even after the limb had been removed. Not that jewelry deprivation was, on any level, comparable to a loss of limb. I’m rationalizing now, just in case, what? In case my thoughts were being zapped to a morality guard who would incarcerate my pettiness?

  My rumbling belly signaled hunger or trouble. I figured I should at least cruise the breakfast options. After my two-step floss and brush, then my three-step skin care, I skipped the multi-stepped cosmetic routine. No one knew me here. We might as well each be assigned an alias since using a name outside of this hospital was almost a federal offense. Unless, of course, they admitted a celebrity in dire need of publicity.

  Day 2. I wore white linen capris and a screaming orange sleeveless blouse scheduled for Day 3. The pants grabbed a bit too much when I bent over and reached for my new white canvas shoes. I spotted the meditation book on the floor near the bed. Sometime during the night, it must have fallen out of my hands. Probably on one of my bathroom trips. I placed it on the bed, finished tying my shoes, then opened it to July 5 and read, “It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” Okay, Ursula K. Le Guin, let's you and I journey to breakfast, and we’ll take it from there.

  Another knock.

  “Five minutes,” mystery voice called out.

  Did anyone ever open a door around here? Did they not realize there's a hall of people in various stages of withdrawal and recovery, and knocking was not conducive to either one?

  A deep breath later, I opened the door that separated me from what I am, and
what I might become.

  10

  Voices rose and fell from the once empty patient rooms of the previous night. The ten-year-old inside me didn’t want to walk into the room alone. Frankly, neither did the twenty-seven-year-old who housed her. I neared the center station but didn’t see the familiar faces of Jan or Matthew.

  Great. They deserted me too.

  “Leah?” The voice of the knock approached. With the exception of wearing sneakers instead of deck shoes, she wore clothes identical to Matthew's from the night before—khakis and a white collared blouse. She, however, twisted her long hair into a loose chignon. I couldn’t tell if the charcoal-shaded wisps and strands that surrounded her head and neck were purposeful or just the result of sloppy braiding. She didn’t wear a drop of makeup, her eyes were the color of aquamarines, her skin was flawless, her legs rivaled Julia Roberts's—already I’m not liking this chick.