CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
“M
a, I don’t
know
why somebody hit me. They didn’t leave a note.”
“Don’t be a smart aleck. Of course, they didn’t leave a
note. I’m not stupid even if I didn’t go to a fancy college. But if someone is
sneaking up behind you and bamming you on the head, you must have some idea. If
it was Kris, I’d just think it was . . .”
“Was what? What’s going on with Kris?” The mere mention of
my sister’s name was enough to set me off. She was the baby in the family and,
for a long time, was the only person in it that I felt close to. Then I got
sober and she hated me for it.
“Never mind Kris. I don’t want to get into it. Isn’t having another
psycho killer come after you enough to worry about? How do you do this? Are you
like a freak magnet? You’re just lucky that neighbor lady found you. Be sure to
send her a thank-you note. How come you didn’t go to school for computers like
I told you? I mean, what do you expect when you work with crazy people? They’re
gonna—”
“
Ma
. I do not work with crazy people. I work with
people . . .” I trailed off.
“With people what?”
“What?”
“You work with people, you said. Then you stopped.”
“Ma, I can’t do this now. I have a headache.” I pressed my
hands to my head. If she didn’t stop talking my head was going to explode. And
then I’d have to listen to her bitch about getting gelatinous brain goo all
over her car seat. She still hadn’t forgiven me for a red Kool-Aid incident
when I was twelve.
I slid against the window, resting my face against the cool glass.
She kept yakking, but by then I’d resorted to the quasi-fugue state I’d learned
to employ as a teen. A parental nagging OFF button.
Even blackouts can be useful.
Back home, it took nearly two hours to convince my mother
that the doctor had overreacted when he suggested I have someone stay with me
all night. She was distracted by her self-appointed inspection—and subsequent reorganization—of
the contents of my kitchen cabinets, refrigerator, freezer, and closets. All
accompanied by a running commentary on the undesirability of having a cat as a
pet. I finally pointed out the cat-behaired couch would be her bed. I
telepathied an apology to Siggy, but he’d already fled to the dark space under
my bed.
Siggy was a survivor.
T
he next day,
Wednesday, I called Lisa and asked her to cancel my clients for the next week, explaining
only that I’d been involved in a crash. I didn’t specify that the crash had
involved a blunt instrument and the back of my head and not an automobile, but
she wasn’t picky about details. She even offered to run over at lunch and bring
me some soup. I almost cried.
In fact, I divided most of the morning between feeling sorry
for myself, panic at the thought that someone had actually tried to kill me,
and a rising fury that someone had
actually
tried to kill me. Again.
It didn’t help that in order to “rest,” I had to practically
lay on my face because the back of my skull hurt so bad. This confused and
frustrated Siggy, who was used to sleeping in the nook created by the curve of
my legs, not on the twin—and ever growing—hillocks of my ass.
We were both cranky by midafternoon.
It wasn’t until I was brushing my teeth that I saw the thin,
red welt on the side of my neck. I patted myself, groping for the chain my eyes
had already told me was missing. Along with Regina’s cow charm. Ripped off my
neck.
I decided to use the down time for strategizing. Unfortunately,
my brain was working at “See Spot run?” level. My “plan” was reduced to showing
up at the shelter’s team meeting tomorrow and watching peoples’ faces to see if
anyone looked killer-esque.
Around 4:00, Pete Durrant called. He’d somehow found out
that I’d been injured. It was possible that Sue, his girlfriend-my sponsor, had
told him, but then how had
she
known? I hadn’t called her yet. Through
her years spent teaching and her underground networking in A.A., she had a lot
of resources, but this was an amazing feat even for her mighty gossip skills. Speculating
made my head hurt worse, so I finally just asked Durrant for an explanation.
“Sue? What are you talking about?” he asked. “Sue wasn’t
there. You told me not to call her.”
“I did? When?”
Long pause. “Last night. In the hospital. Don’t remember,
huh?”
I tried so hard to remember that I felt my brain split in two
and start to leak out my orifices. A closer inspection revealed I was crying.
Shit.
“What were you doing there?” I asked.
“Well, believe it or not, we consider someone attacking you
a crime. Understandable, maybe, but still a crime. When that happens, they
generally let the police know so we can serve and protect and all that law-and-order
stuff. I guess I don’t need to ask if you’ve remembered any more details of the
attack.”
Strangely, his sarcasm had a lifting effect on my spirits.
Only people who really love you will use your worst moments to score on you.
Besides, he knew I was crying; it probably unnerved him.
“I can see why you and Sue get along so well,” I said
through my sniffles. “Is being a smartass a new interrogation technique?”
“No, just a facet of my own scintillating personality.
Besides, Sue’s mad at me again.”
“Understandable, maybe, but still a mistake.”
“True, very true. So let’s start over now that we’re all on
the same page. Hello, Ms. Whittaker, this is Officer Durrant. I’m following up
on the unfortunate incident yesterday evening. How are you feeling?”
“Like dog poop. Thanks for asking.”
“You’re very welcome. Have you been able to recall any
additional information relating to said unfortunate incident?”
“I remember being scared. Or . . . no, wait, that was
earlier.”
“Scared of what?” His tone instantly reverted to cop-voice.
“I don’t . . . I think someone was watching me.” Snatches
of images clicked through my mind like a stutter-stop slide show: running in
the dark; flashbulbs exploding; the newspaper photo of Clotilde, Astrid and
Lachlyn standing next to the Devlin House sign; snarls of bright red yarn
twining like snakes around my feet. I knew, taken as a whole, the images didn’t
make sense, but they felt true. True, but not factual—what the hell did that
mean?
Durrant had no clue either.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
I
hadn’t been to
an AA meeting since Saturday, but I wasn’t well enough to go, despite Wednesday
nights being my favorite meetings. The thought of enduring the shrill cacophony
of women’s voices made my head pound in anticipation. I told myself I wanted to
be rested before the shelter’s staffing the following day.
I should have realized I wouldn’t escape that easily.
My phone rang just after 8:30 p.m. I’d fallen asleep on the
couch and woke up with a drool slick on the cushion. Siggy hovered on the arm rest,
eyeing me in a state of catly disdain. This from an animal who licks himself.
“’lo?” I cleared my throat.
“Seriously? It’s not even 9:00 and you’re sleeping?”
“Sue?”
“Why aren’t you here? And why didn’t you call me to set up your
Third Step meeting? What’s going on? You know what? Never mind. Put the coffee
on.”
Click.
I stared blankly at the phone receiver as my brain processed
the ugly fact: Sue was coming. . . and she was
pissed
.
With everything going on, I’d been lax in keeping her
updated—a big no-no with sponsors. For all she knew, I’d been on a wild
drinking spree. Sponsors hate being the last to know those things. Part of me
felt slighted that she might not trust me, but then again, I’d only been sober
a short time and lately, with Regina’s death and all, I’d slacked off on more
than just staying in contact.
A tiny voice—one so new to me I barely recognized it—niggled
at my conscience. Why not be honest? I hadn’t been working the Program since
before Regina died. I’d have to ponder that later.
Right now, I’d need all the mushy, bruised cells in my brain
to figure out what I was going to tell Sue, especially when she noticed my
banged up cranium. After supporting me through the aftermath of last summer,
she wouldn’t take kindly to hearing how entangled I’d become with Regina’s
death.
She already knew about my initial reluctance to acting as Regina’s
professional executor, and she knew that I’d needed Beth’s support to stay
involved with the shelter. Come to think of it, she knew about Blodgett’s assault,
too; she’d also helped me track down Pete Durrant so I could find out what had happened.
But unless Pete told her about the attack on me last night, she didn’t know
that I’d been hurt, too.
Lying was not an option. Sue knew me too well and had long
ago developed shit-detection to an art form. I needed to find a way to tell her
the truth in such a way as to not let her discover what the truth was.
My head hurt.
Besides, she was already knocking at my door. I shuffled
across the fake hardwood flooring to let her in.
“Well, good evening, sunshine! It’s so nice to see you
again.” She came in like Wisconsin winters—deceptively serene, potentially
fatal—her cheeriness as illusory as the warmth of a December sun.
I flinched as she pretended to buss my cheek with a social
kiss. Flinched because Sue was neither social nor a kisser. I was afraid she was
going to bite me.
She walked over to the empty coffee maker, glaring balefully
at it as though by force of nature she could will it to perk. Siggy appeared
and started twining around her feet. Like most felines, he could tell when
somebody didn’t like cats and exerted a version of passive-aggressive revenge.
She nudged him away with her foot.
“Oh. I forgot to make coffee,” I said.
Sue turned the chilly gaze to me, making me flinch again. I
cleared my throat. “Um. How about we sit in the living room?”
Siggy followed us in and perched on the arm of the couch
next to our guest. Ignoring him, Sue waited until we’d settled before starting
in. “Letty, what the hell is going on? I haven’t seen or heard from you in days,
and now you’re avoiding me.”
“I haven’t been avoiding you!” Therapists don’t avoid. We
just find things to do that take priority. “Taking on Regina’s case load was a
lot more complicated than I thought. I know I’ve been missing some meetings,
but—”
“This started long before Regina died. It was hard enough
getting you to do your Second Step, but every time I try to set up a time to
talk about the Third, you beg off. When I tell you to call me to set something
up, I never hear from you. The one time you
did
come over to my house to
work on it, you got leprosy and had to leave.”
“That was hives. I think it was the tuna fish salad I ate
for lunch that day.”
“Oh, bullshit. It wasn’t the tuna fish. Stress causes hives,
too. Now, I have been very patient,” Sue said, pulling a saintly, beatific expression
out of her retired-teacher’s bag of tricks.
Unfortunately, it was true. She had been very patient—a
characteristic I wouldn’t normally associate with my sponsor. A thought broke
through my sluggish brain. “You love me.”
“
What?
”
“You must really love me or you wouldn’t be so patient.” I
threw my arms wide. “Give me a hug.”
“I’ll give you a smack on the head is what I’ll give you,
especially if you keep trying to distract me.”
Siggy jumped into her lap. Sue picked him up and deposited
him on the floor.
“Look,” she continued, after taking a deep breath. “You’re
right. I do love you. If you aren’t ready to move on to Step Three, that’s
fine, but you can’t work the Program if you don’t. In fact, it’s obvious that
you’re not even fully committed to the Second. Maybe we need to go back to that
one. If you don’t work the Program, then you
will
drink. And if you
drink, then we say good-bye because I can’t sit around and watch that.”
I was used to Sue being cranky. Frankly, her bitchiness was entertaining
especially since everyone knew it masked a marshmallow heart. Quiet sincerity from
her was distressing. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to be flip but
everything that came to my mind was either an excuse or a joke. So, I kept my
mouth shut for once.
After several minutes, she sighed. Fear bubbled up inside me,
finally forcing words out.
“Are you firing me?” Sue hadn’t dropped me after I’d
relapsed a few months ago, but she could have.
“No, I’m not,” she said. “And I’m not trying to nag at you,
but I need you to know how serious I think this is. You can coast for a while,
Letty. People do, all the time. But if a drunk doesn’t get right with herself
and her Higher Power, she’s gonna drink. You need to figure out what’s stopping
you from moving forward on this Step. Is it a God thing? Lots of people can’t
stand the thought of God, or what they think is God. We can talk about that. But
you can’t keep running away and, eventually, you might come to a time when you
realize how badly you need that relationship. You can’t always do life on your
own. You’re going to need someone and that someone might just be God. It makes
sense to get to know him before you get to that point.”
“How do I know if there even
is
a God?”
“Ask him,” Sue said.
“Ask him? How?”
“Pray. If he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t exist.”
“What if he answers?” I mumbled.
Sue smiled.
“But how do I turn my will over to something I don’t even
understand? I mean, I believe in God, but . . .” I trailed off, realizing I
wasn’t making sense.
“Okay, stop there for a minute,” Sue said. “This is good.”
Tears slid down my face. I told myself it was from my
headache, which had grown exponentially during our conversation. Siggy
abandoned his quest to irritate Sue, jumping into my lap and began inspecting
my wet cheeks. His whiskers tickled.
“This is
good
? What’s good about not knowing if you
believe in God?”
“You believe in God. You just said you did. You just don’t
know if can you trust him or not.”
“And what’s so good about that?”
“You stopped running, Letty.” She reached over and patted my
leg. “That’s enough for now.”
I inhaled a deep, shaky breath. I felt weird—emptied, but
peaceful. I felt better. Relieved, maybe? I’d felt the same thing the first
time I’d sat in an AA meeting and admitted I was an alcoholic. I stroked Siggy,
listening to him purr, a warm lump in my lap.
“Feel better?” Sue asked.
I nodded.
“Good. Now tell me what the hell happened to your head.”