waiting. Waiting for you. When you finally get yourself in bed, you won’t let me touch you. How's a husband supposed to survive like that?”
She stilled her body and waited. This would not be the end of the tirade. I knew he must punish me as he felt I ’d punished him . At least this was familiar. I knew what to expect.
He walked over to me. His meaty hands filled the hollows of my shoulders. He leaned over. His mouth pressed against my right ear. I focused on the Miersdorf watercolor hanging on the wall. Painted with jazzy reds and inky blacks and sapphire blues, the piano grinned at the shadowy figure perched on the piano stool. I made myself tiny inside the shell of my body. His moist whispers coated my neck. The clammy wetness reminded me of the mulch in my father's backyard and how, when he’d turn it over, a manure-heavy steam would rise from the pile.
“I’ll be home on Sunday. We can make up for all the lost time. I know you’ll be ready then.”
16
D o you know what's worse than group with Dr… . ? Oh—I know. Nothing,” I said to Jan, whose afternoon shift started while I suffered in the Little Shop of Therapy Horrors. Actually, I was talking at her since I didn’t want or ask for a response. Judging by the lazy grin on Jan's face, I wasn’t the first trauma victim suffering from post-group syndrome.
I power-walked around the nurses’ station, grateful for the locked windows that kept me from leaping—of course, how much damage could I do to myself from the second floor—but also to outrun the cigarette smoke wafting from the rec room.
“There are no windows in that room. That's perverse. And it's freezing in there. Nobody told me I’d need a coat. Walking out of that place …”
“Hey, at least you didn’t have to be carried out.” Jan's smile betrayed her attempt at sounding serious. “Anyway, think about this,” she said, scooting her desk chair over to reach the ringing telephone, “visiting starts on Sunday.” She was laughing by the time she answered the call.
The weekend morphed into some never-ending story of impending doom. First, when we leave the group session we’ll board a bus Friday evening for our first AA meeting away.
Then I’m pummeled with the thought of visitors. The army of ants that paraded through my stomach decided to pitch tents.
It's almost time for another meal. Here, meals have little or nothing to do with hunger. Maybe, before I’m totally sober and completely, certifiably ready to leave here, my stomach will adjust to this schedule. Not that it matters. I’ve already learned to eat on demand. When I’m hungry, I hope there’re enough Nutty Buddies or Blue Bell mini ice cream sandwiches in the freezer to stuff into the empty rumbling cave.
Today, though, it seemed pointless to even try eating. I was sure some reverse gravitational law would kick in—and whatever I sent down would reappear. Already, I couldn’t believe there was a time when I used to pray to not have to cook yet one more meal.
Mom always said to be careful what you pray for—you might just get it. “But,” she’d be quick to warn, “it may not come wrapped in the package you’re expecting. Remember that before you start asking God for all kinds of foolishness. Sometimes you’re just borrowing trouble.”
The yellow bus coughed its way out of the parking lot, entering Trace Street with just enough energy to squeeze into the snarling early evening traffic. This pumpkin was not the carriage I expected. But then, I wasn’t headed to the ball either. Maybe school buses were used as part of the aversion therapy. Don’t make us too comfortable, or else we may not want to leave.
We arranged ourselves like so many strangers, careful not to invade one another's space. The bus leveled the playing field. No one person had authority in this territory. Even Doug sagged a little less—which was Doug-ese for saying
She stilled her body and waited. This would not be the end of the tirade. I knew he must punish me as he felt I ’d punished him . At least this was familiar. I knew what to expect.
He walked over to me. His meaty hands filled the hollows of my shoulders. He leaned over. His mouth pressed against my right ear. I focused on the Miersdorf watercolor hanging on the wall. Painted with jazzy reds and inky blacks and sapphire blues, the piano grinned at the shadowy figure perched on the piano stool. I made myself tiny inside the shell of my body. His moist whispers coated my neck. The clammy wetness reminded me of the mulch in my father's backyard and how, when he’d turn it over, a manure-heavy steam would rise from the pile.
“I’ll be home on Sunday. We can make up for all the lost time. I know you’ll be ready then.”
16
D o you know what's worse than group with Dr… . ? Oh—I know. Nothing,” I said to Jan, whose afternoon shift started while I suffered in the Little Shop of Therapy Horrors. Actually, I was talking at her since I didn’t want or ask for a response. Judging by the lazy grin on Jan's face, I wasn’t the first trauma victim suffering from post-group syndrome.
I power-walked around the nurses’ station, grateful for the locked windows that kept me from leaping—of course, how much damage could I do to myself from the second floor—but also to outrun the cigarette smoke wafting from the rec room.
“There are no windows in that room. That's perverse. And it's freezing in there. Nobody told me I’d need a coat. Walking out of that place …”
“Hey, at least you didn’t have to be carried out.” Jan's smile betrayed her attempt at sounding serious. “Anyway, think about this,” she said, scooting her desk chair over to reach the ringing telephone, “visiting starts on Sunday.” She was laughing by the time she answered the call.
The weekend morphed into some never-ending story of impending doom. First, when we leave the group session we’ll board a bus Friday evening for our first AA meeting away.
Then I’m pummeled with the thought of visitors. The army of ants that paraded through my stomach decided to pitch tents.
It's almost time for another meal. Here, meals have little or nothing to do with hunger. Maybe, before I’m totally sober and completely, certifiably ready to leave here, my stomach will adjust to this schedule. Not that it matters. I’ve already learned to eat on demand. When I’m hungry, I hope there’re enough Nutty Buddies or Blue Bell mini ice cream sandwiches in the freezer to stuff into the empty rumbling cave.
Today, though, it seemed pointless to even try eating. I was sure some reverse gravitational law would kick in—and whatever I sent down would reappear. Already, I couldn’t believe there was a time when I used to pray to not have to cook yet one more meal.
Mom always said to be careful what you pray for—you might just get it. “But,” she’d be quick to warn, “it may not come wrapped in the package you’re expecting. Remember that before you start asking God for all kinds of foolishness. Sometimes you’re just borrowing trouble.”
The yellow bus coughed its way out of the parking lot, entering Trace Street with just enough energy to squeeze into the snarling early evening traffic. This pumpkin was not the carriage I expected. But then, I wasn’t headed to the ball either. Maybe school buses were used as part of the aversion therapy. Don’t make us too comfortable, or else we may not want to leave.
We arranged ourselves like so many strangers, careful not to invade one another's space. The bus leveled the playing field. No one person had authority in this territory. Even Doug sagged a little less—which was Doug-ese for saying
Similar Books
