BOUNDLESS (Mama's Story) by Lexie Ray Page A

been doing that ever since the first meeting.
    “I’m Karla, and alcoholic,” Karla said from the podium.
    “Hi, Karla,” we all answered.
    She went through the twelve steps, inmates reciting them perfectly, word for word. I was swept up in the spirit of them—admit, believe, decide, search, admit, be ready, ask, list, amend, take, seek, awake. It was a system, a practice, a prayer.
    “And now is the time for sharing,” Karla said. “Who would like to share?”
    Like always, everyone’s hands shot up. I took a deep breath, clutched the piece of paper with my son’s phone number on it, and raised my hand.
    “Wanda,” Karla said, beaming. “Come on up.”
    There was a ripple of excitement through the group that I thought I could understand. Week after week, they heard the same stories. Everyone knew that I’d been attending without sharing, and now they’d hear my story. I just hoped I knew how to tell it correctly, not leaving anything out.
    “My name is Wanda,” I said. “And I’m an alcoholic.”
    “Hi, Wanda,” everyone said, and Marlee raised a big cheer from the back of the crowd.
    I smiled briefly and looked down at the podium. It was a strange thing to belong, but wonderful. I felt like anything was possible now.
    “I’ve lived a strange life,” I began, and hesitated.
    “Amen!”
    “I found out right around the time when I was supposed to be getting into high school that I could get whatever I wanted if I used my body,” I said, “offering it to men.”
    There had even been a day when I realized the power of my big tits and little waist, the power of a lingering glance. I’d felt giddy at this knowledge, excited by the fact that I could move mountains with a flick of my hair, a sway of my hips.
    “The first trick I turned was for cash and alcohol,” I said. “And alcohol stayed with me ever since. It was my constant. I could always lean on it, always celebrate with it, always lament with it.”
    I raised my eyes from the surface of the podium to the crowd. Some inmates were nodding emphatically while others looked pensive, biting at their lips or nails.
    “I didn’t even stop drinking when one of my johns knocked me up,” I continued. “I knew there was a life growing inside of me. I knew that booze would harm it. I just didn’t give a shit. To me, there was nothing more important than the bottle—nothing. I didn’t even know which of my johns was the father to my son.”
    I remembered the feeling of him kicking inside of me even as I leaned against the outside of my apartment building, trolling for a payday. I’d left home at an early age—home hadn’t been conducive to what I really wanted to be doing. I’d always had ideas of what I should be doing, and they never jived with my parents’. Looking to avoid conflict—and gain freedom—I left and found a gang of girls to run around with, shacking up in a hovel with them whenever I wasn’t working hotels or bars or the streets. They all encouraged me to work with their pimps, but I insisted on being my own boss. There was no man who could tell me what to do.
    “When my son was born, I didn’t harbor any illusions,” I said. “I knew that I could keep turning tricks and raise him and party as hard as I was. I would sooner miss paying my portion of the rent than not have money to buy a bottle of whiskey. I was managing, though, managing myself, managing my life. There was always a girl at the apartment, so there was someone to look after Marshall—my baby—when I was out working. Or in drinking, too drunk to handle him. Even after creating that life, alcohol was always number one. Always.”
    God, he’d cry for me, holding up those chubby little arms, tears and snot running down his face as he wailed. I’d fuss at him, hold him, kiss him, scream at him, but it made no difference. He was always crying, always whining for something I apparently wasn’t giving him. It made me feel like I was constantly doing wrong, and