hot and fast.
Señora Rosa hurried over to press a glass of ice water into Christina’s hand. “Drink, señora, ” she implored, waving her hands through the air as if to sweep the liquid into Christina’s throat.
Christina managed a tiny sip.
Peter was following her progress from his end of the phone. “Have you had anything to eat or drink today?”
“A little.” It was a lie. She hadn’t had enough to eat or drink even to merit a visit to the bathroom since yesterday.
“H.A.L.T., Christina. You remember H.A.L.T.?” When she didn’t reply, he filled in the blanks. “Don’t get too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired.”
Again with the slogans, Christina thought. “I’m trying.”
“It’s so important to stay hydrated and eat whatever you can,” Peter continued. “Early on in sobriety, especially during times of stress, we need to make a special effort to eat.”
Rosa must have been on the same wavelength because she was heating something in the microwave.
The odor made Christina’s stomach heave. “I’m trying.”
Peter changed tacks. “Have you been to an AA meeting yet?”
When was she supposed to have gone to an AA meeting? “I’m working on that,” Christina responded tightly.
There was silence on the line.
“Really.” Christina wondered how to change the subject.
“I can help. Let me pull up something on my computer here.”
Ever ready to be of service.
The timer on the microwave went off.
Señora Rosa rushed in with a steamy plate of something piled on rice.
Christina gagged.
“How about Westhampton Beach? There’s a step meeting there at eleven.”
Christina frowned. He must have access to a list of every AA meeting in the country. “That won’t work.”
“Why not? It’s got to be fairly close. Westhampton Beach. And you’re in a Hampton, right? It’s right there on Montauk Highway.” He pronounced it Mon-toke.
She did not bother to correct him. “Long Island is big. I’m in East Hampton, which is not really that close.”
“Okay,” he said in a tone that told her he would stick with this all day.
She heard clacking noises. He was a fast typist. She sighed.
Señora Rosa removed plastic film from the plate, releasing a lardy cloud.
Christina tried to narrow her nostrils to block the smell. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“It’s a ‘We’ program,” Peter was saying on the other end of the phone.
“Please, señora, if you would only try.” Rosa’s voice was pleading.
Christina cracked one eye open.
Señora Rosa stood, hands clasped as though in prayer, beseeching her. “Only to try.”
Peter was still working on her through the phone. “Meeting makers make it.”
Another slogan. He could shove it up his ass.
Marisol was making her way through the living room, a feather duster and furniture spray in hand. She slowed to get a look at Christina.
Their eyes met, and Christina did not like what she saw.
She and Marisol were about the same age.
Christina remembered one time, Labor Day weekend before last, the morning after a big party. She’d come down early in search of aspirin. They had run out of Tylenol in the master bathroom.
Jason was there, dressed to play golf, standing very close to Marisol.
Marisol was smiling.
They both turned, startled, as Christina approached, and moved away from each other.
Not before Christina saw something in Marisol’s hand. A thick wad of green bills. She had asked Jason about it later.
He turned quiet. “She’s got a kid back home, retarded or something.”
Jason was not the softhearted type. “We pay themplenty of money,” Christina had protested. “They get paid better than half the people who work in town.”
Jason shrugged. “You ever take a look at this place sometimes?” He had looked around the giant space that encompassed the living area, entryway, dining area, and eat-in kitchen. It was spotless now, but Christina knew what he was getting at. “Do you have any idea the shit they clean
Señora Rosa hurried over to press a glass of ice water into Christina’s hand. “Drink, señora, ” she implored, waving her hands through the air as if to sweep the liquid into Christina’s throat.
Christina managed a tiny sip.
Peter was following her progress from his end of the phone. “Have you had anything to eat or drink today?”
“A little.” It was a lie. She hadn’t had enough to eat or drink even to merit a visit to the bathroom since yesterday.
“H.A.L.T., Christina. You remember H.A.L.T.?” When she didn’t reply, he filled in the blanks. “Don’t get too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired.”
Again with the slogans, Christina thought. “I’m trying.”
“It’s so important to stay hydrated and eat whatever you can,” Peter continued. “Early on in sobriety, especially during times of stress, we need to make a special effort to eat.”
Rosa must have been on the same wavelength because she was heating something in the microwave.
The odor made Christina’s stomach heave. “I’m trying.”
Peter changed tacks. “Have you been to an AA meeting yet?”
When was she supposed to have gone to an AA meeting? “I’m working on that,” Christina responded tightly.
There was silence on the line.
“Really.” Christina wondered how to change the subject.
“I can help. Let me pull up something on my computer here.”
Ever ready to be of service.
The timer on the microwave went off.
Señora Rosa rushed in with a steamy plate of something piled on rice.
Christina gagged.
“How about Westhampton Beach? There’s a step meeting there at eleven.”
Christina frowned. He must have access to a list of every AA meeting in the country. “That won’t work.”
“Why not? It’s got to be fairly close. Westhampton Beach. And you’re in a Hampton, right? It’s right there on Montauk Highway.” He pronounced it Mon-toke.
She did not bother to correct him. “Long Island is big. I’m in East Hampton, which is not really that close.”
“Okay,” he said in a tone that told her he would stick with this all day.
She heard clacking noises. He was a fast typist. She sighed.
Señora Rosa removed plastic film from the plate, releasing a lardy cloud.
Christina tried to narrow her nostrils to block the smell. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“It’s a ‘We’ program,” Peter was saying on the other end of the phone.
“Please, señora, if you would only try.” Rosa’s voice was pleading.
Christina cracked one eye open.
Señora Rosa stood, hands clasped as though in prayer, beseeching her. “Only to try.”
Peter was still working on her through the phone. “Meeting makers make it.”
Another slogan. He could shove it up his ass.
Marisol was making her way through the living room, a feather duster and furniture spray in hand. She slowed to get a look at Christina.
Their eyes met, and Christina did not like what she saw.
She and Marisol were about the same age.
Christina remembered one time, Labor Day weekend before last, the morning after a big party. She’d come down early in search of aspirin. They had run out of Tylenol in the master bathroom.
Jason was there, dressed to play golf, standing very close to Marisol.
Marisol was smiling.
They both turned, startled, as Christina approached, and moved away from each other.
Not before Christina saw something in Marisol’s hand. A thick wad of green bills. She had asked Jason about it later.
He turned quiet. “She’s got a kid back home, retarded or something.”
Jason was not the softhearted type. “We pay themplenty of money,” Christina had protested. “They get paid better than half the people who work in town.”
Jason shrugged. “You ever take a look at this place sometimes?” He had looked around the giant space that encompassed the living area, entryway, dining area, and eat-in kitchen. It was spotless now, but Christina knew what he was getting at. “Do you have any idea the shit they clean
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