Prologue
Spring 2009
[Beverly]
“Hello. My name is Beverly, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Beverly.” The chorus of various voices respond to my introduction, and I stare out at the circle of strangers in all sizes and colors looking back at me. I’ve never had so much attention on me, and I fidget with the skirt covering my weak legs. I sit in a wheelchair today, grateful for the life I could have lost because of a stupid decision.
Are you stupid? Howard would have asked. I’d been stupid over him.
After rubbing my palms down the material of my skirt, sweat remains despite my attempts to dry them.
“Beverly, why don’t you tell us what brought you here today?” encourages the sweet, melodic tone of the facilitator. I don’t suppose I can give the snarky response that first comes to my tongue.
The probation officer is making me attend.
“I’m here to learn about myself and seek forgiveness for what I’ve done.”
The repentant child—one offering confession and seeking redemption—is something I’ve mastered. As a mischievous youngster, I’d do all sorts of things requiring an apology to my parents, who practiced their own sense of religion. I didn’t follow rules very well. As an adult, some rules were unavoidable.
Nameless faces in the circle nod their agreement with my statement of contrition. I’m told they will understand what I’ve done, how I felt, and who I have become. If that’s true, I’d like someone in the crowd to tell me who I am because somewhere along the path of my life, I’ve lost myself.
“Want to tell us a little bit about what happened, Beverly?”
I don’t, actually, but I know I have to. It’s a requirement of my probation—mandatory participation in regularly scheduled Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings, which I am to attend in their entirety, so no sneaking out early.
“I was in an accident.”
I wish that was the extent of my answer, and the short, simple statement would absolve me of my sin. But the hesitant pause and the encouraging brow lift of the chairperson hints that she knows there is more to my story.
“My husband left me.” I chew at my dry lips as I leave out how it was years ago. “I’m a single mother.” A slight smile curls my lips as the truth of the matter is, I love my child, who has grown into a good-hearted, generous college co-ed. More than anything, she’s a ray of sunshine in my life.
I should have been better for her.
I should have done better.
Instead…
“He abandoned us when my daughter was young. It’d been ten years since he left, and I thought I knew where he was. I decided to investigate, but I needed liquid courage before I went after him.” A few people chuckle as they understand the reference. I thought an alcoholic drink or two would ease the tension, relieve the heartache, and settle the anger, but it did none of those things. Instead, it fueled something inside me I didn’t want to acknowledge. Bitterness rooted so deep I physically shook. Betrayal carved so savagely my blood boiled. Determination so willful it became an entity of its own. And I made a decision I would forever regret.
“He’d left me for another woman. One of many he’d been with over the course of our marriage, and rumor had it they were back in the area. A Pink Pony reunion.” Can you believe they have stripper reunions? It’s actually a thing. When you bare that much of your skin with others, you form an unprecedented bond, I guess. The removal of some woman’s clothing and the hands of my husband on her were a vision I didn’t want to revisit because that was a thing as well. A common occurrence. One I’d ignored, or enabled, or hadn’t believed could happen to me. He’d always came back to me with promises that he’d do better, be better. I’d held onto those words of affection and pleas for forgiveness.
Howard had loved me.
But had he?
I wouldn’t do something well enough, and the condemning words would spew. He’d step out again, citing it as my fault.
A man to my left shifts in his seat, and his movement hints at his recognition of the name of the local strip bar as well as his familiarity with the reunion, but he says nothing. He isn’t allowed to speak. This is my meeting. An introduction of sorts.
“Anyway, I drank…and then drove.” The silence that follows my admission fills the room like helium trapped in a balloon. The severity of what I’d done is not lost on this group. Drinking and driving is not only illegal, but it can also be deadly. Fortunately, I did not kill the victim.
“I ran a red light and clipped the back wheel of a motorcycle. He survived.” As if the listeners had held their breath, a collective sigh of relief empties into the space, swirling around us like a sympathetic hug.
He’d lived. Huzzah.
I am relieved. I did not know him even though I’m told he was a member of a local biker club outside our small community of Green Valley. I’m waiting for the day they want retribution against me for harming one of their own.
It was an accident.
The truth rumbles through me like the tires treading down the mountainous switchbacks near my home. Although I’d driven that stretch of road a hundred times, the red light had snuck up on me. In my quest for Howard, my vision blurred on my surroundings. Then again, the alcohol had impaired my sight…and slowed my reflexes.
“Sending my vehicle into a tailspin, I crashed into a tree.” My hand clenches the loose material over my mangled left leg. The one crumbled and crushed. From toes to upper thigh, a cast covers my damaged limb. Rehabilitation. Limited ambulation.
You could walk again.
I didn’t deserve to walk. I had nowhere to go. Howard was gone. I was alone. And lonely.
“I damaged the left half of my body. Dislocated shoulder. Broken leg. Broken hip.” Another round of gasps, more sporadic, while others wince. I agree with the sounds. Recovering is slow and painful, but the greater struggle is the will to recover. Hannah is my sunshine.
I’m here for you, Momma. Just don’t leave me.
Her plea was the small sliver of motivation dragging me off the hospital bed to attempt therapy.
“I’m told I’ll regain mobility but never be one hundred percent. I’ll…” I can’t say the words I should admit.
You’ll always have a limp.
I didn’t want a limp. I didn’t want to be deemed incapable. I didn’t want anyone to see me. Internally, I chuckle bitterly with the thought that no one saw me anyway.
I’ve tried to live my life believing it could always be worse. Someone else always has it sadder. Someone else has it rougher. But over time, I could only take so many layers of sorrow and struggle before the rungs on the ladder of bad circumstances snapped, and I’d tumbled to the ground.
Forced marriage. Miscarriage.
I’d thought that was bad.
Philandering husband. Verbally abusive.
Still could be worse.
Abandonment.
The solitude had seemed like a welcome reprieve, only with it came confusion and bitterness and poor decisions.
One drink. Then two a night. A few during the day. Suddenly, I’d lost count, and the only way I could function was with support. Jack Daniel’s was my best friend. What can I say? I live in Tennessee.