Chapter 7
There were times when I used to drink myself into such a stupor I would misplace days, having no idea where they went. The only time I’ve ever experienced anything close to this while sober was when I held a paintbrush in my hand, creating.
I stood back from the wall, stretching my neck and back while surveying the botanical garden I’d planted and landscaped with a great deal of paint and a brush.
This wall had a selection of ferns. Horsetails, eagle ferns, the Java fern, and leatherleaf.
Colorful perennials in rich purples, deep oranges, pinks, and yellows bloomed amongst the green plants.
I was toying with the idea of planting a garden of poisonous plants on a small area of wall by the bookcases, a nod to the toxic parts of my life story. Most people wouldn’t even know what it meant. My parents would, but it was unlikely they would ever lay eyes on this room.
College sweethearts, Rupert and Rose put the cart before the horse when my mother got pregnant with Cy her junior year.
They married the following year after graduation and focused the next ten years of their lives on raising Cy and advancing their careers.
They had worked at the top botanical gardens in the US: Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Garden, New York Botanical Garden, Brookgreen Gardens.
They spent a few years near their hometown of Columbia, doing consulting work for the Riverbanks Zoo, after Mom gave birth to me.
Even though they had been absent a good chunk of my life, focusing on work above everything, their children included, I was darn proud of my parents.
I just wish they could have figured out how to let us be a part of their world instead of spectators.
I barely heard the doorbell from way up here, but it was enough of a disruption to snap me out of my creative zone. Dropping the paintbrush in the pail of water, I wiped a smear of green off my finger and onto my ruined jeans and went down to open the door.
Gilbert lowered his sunglasses and gave me a once-over. “What did you do, fall into a bucket of paint?” He pointed toward my head. “You even got it in your hair.”
Having paint on myself didn’t bother me, so I chose not to address his snark. “May I help you, sir?”
Gilbert eased around me, being careful to not come into contact with any of the paint. “You need to get cleaned up.” He checked his shiny gold watch. “We have a meeting to get to.”
Grumbling under my breath, I moved to the kitchen and started scrubbing the paint from my hands. “Feels like we just went to one.”
“It’s been four days since that last meeting.”
I glanced over my shoulder, continuing to scrub. “You sure?”
Gilbert inclined his head toward the stairs. “We need to leave in twenty minutes.”
“But my face is still busted and bruised.”
“It ain’t that bad. Just put some face goop over it.”
“You mean foundation, concealer?”
“Sure.”
“Sure,” I mimicked in a childish tone. I turned off the faucet and made my way upstairs.
After running through the shower to rid myself of the paint, wishing I could wash the bruises off my skin as easily, I dressed in a fresh blouse and jeans while contemplating what to do with my face.
I didn’t own concealer or foundation. My cosmetic collection only consisted of a small eye shadow palette, lip gloss, and a tube of mascara.
Wrapping a towel around my wet hair, I decided to go see what my grandmother had in her vanity.
I stood by Olla’s door for a moment, then slowly walked in while keeping my focus on her dressing table since there wasn’t enough time to take in what would surely feel like a shrine of her belongings.
I picked up the glass bottle of her favorite Estée Lauder foundation and examined it, only to find it dried out.
I leaned close to the mirror and scrutinized the damage.
The scab on my lip still looked gnarly and the bruising had faded to zombie green and yellow, but at least I didn’t look like I had a chaw of tobacco in my mouth any longer.
I unscrewed the cap off the Olay lotion and sniffed it.
The light scent of almonds and flowers smelled like my grandmother when she leaned in to kiss my cheek.
I squirted some in my palm and smoothed it over my face.
Close to falling into my grief, I hurried out of Olla’s room and rushed through drying my hair.
Now in a terrible mood and missing my grandmother, I stomped downstairs. “Let’s go get this over with.”
“Sheesh, what a great attitude.” Gilbert held the door open for me. “Would it kill you to try making the best of this?”
“Probably.” Shoulders slumped, I shuffled past him.
“This meeting is nearby. Just off the island at the Methodist church, so it’s convenient.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Gilbert mimicked me in a whiny tone. Guess I deserved it.
Not even fifteen minutes later, we walked into the small fellowship hall of a quaint, redbrick church and it smelled like an all-you-can-eat Sunday buffet, making my mouth water. I hadn’t just lost days while painting, but also mealtimes.
“Is this AA or a church potluck?” I muttered, zeroing in on the various covered dishes taking up the entire surface of the counter.
“They always provide a meal at this meeting. Be grateful,” Gilbert muttered back as we joined the short line.
Three older ladies with wide smiles served up the food, each one wanting to know how I was doing. I wanted to point out the obvious, I’m attending an AA meeting with a bruised face and busted lip, how do you think I’m doing? Instead, I gave the typical response. “I’m fine. How ’bout you?”
One with red hair stopped me before I veered away. “My name is Betty. Let me know if you need anything at all.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I offered a faint smile and turned to find a place to sit. The group only took up two tables. A quick head count came to a total of thirteen people.
Gilbert caught my attention and waved me to join him at the second table.
After everyone had their plate and someone said grace, we dug in. Another perk to this meeting was the freshly brewed tea. You had to give it to the little Southern church ladies, they knew how to make a dang good glass of sweet tea. The crispy fried chicken and mashed potatoes were on point too.
Once plates were mostly empty, a man stood at the small podium in front of us and introduced himself as Reggie.
“Let us stand and recite the Serenity Prayer.” Reggie waited until we were all on our feet, then began leading us. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
As we settled in our seats again, the church ladies went to work, walking around and passing out little plates of pound cake, followed by coffee. I ate the cake but pushed the cup of coffee over to Gilbert.
This meeting didn’t have raised voices or wayward elbows to the face, but it seemed a bit saccharine for my taste. It was like everyone was on their best behavior, for fear of being scolded by God himself if they stepped out of line in any way.
“This is making me uncomfortable,” I whispered, but Gilbert shushed me as a woman joined Reggie at the podium. Between her limp ponytail and baggy clothes, she looked awfully tired.
“Hello. My name is Maren and I’ve been sober for five months.”
The short amount of time into her sobriety caught my attention but then she proceeded to tell us her heartbreaking story.
“I’ve struggled with alcohol a lot in the last three years since my divorce and well, I hit rock bottom a year ago.
” She sniffed, wiping under her nose. One of those sweet church ladies hurried over with a tissue.
Maren thanked her. Instead of using it, she began folding and unfolding it while speaking.
“I’d found out my hus—ex-husband got engaged to his mistress.
” She sniffled a watery laugh. “Not very original, I know. So, anyway, I’d polished off two bottles of wine before I knew it and midway through making dinner, I ended up on the couch.
Blacked-out drunk. I woke up to screams and smoke.
My twelve-year-old got the fire out but not before she burned her arm.
I was so wasted that I had to have my fourteen-year-old son drive us to the ER.
I was arrested for child endangerment and haven’t seen my children since the hearing. ”
As tears streamed down Maren’s face, I found myself crying right along with her. Gilbert patted my shoulder, knowingly.
“I miss my children so much, but I know I have to fix me before I can be the mother they need.” Maren sat down and the group quietly clapped.
Reggie returned to the podium. “Maren, we’re all here to support you in this. Thank you for sharing with us tonight.”
A few others stood and shared but I was stuck on Maren’s story and how similar it was to mine.
One of the things my counselor shared with me in rehab on one of my lowest days came to mind.
Junie, you have to put your oxygen mask on first before you can help your child.
I’d heard something like that before but it never really resonated with me until then.
Even though it felt incredibly selfish, she explained otherwise.
Putting yourself first when you’re unhealthy must be a priority.
You want those you love to have the healthiest version of yourself.
The meeting concluded and I was first to leave the table and make a beeline for the door.
“Sweetie, don’t forget your to-go plate.” Betty shoved a weighty Styrofoam box into my hands and gave me a hug.
“Thank you.” I held the container in front of me to ward off any more hugs and fast-walked to Gilbert’s car.
He drove us out of the lot and turned the radio down. “You okay?”
“Yes, sir. Maren sharing her story . . . That gave me a lot to think about. My counselor told me that making your needs a priority is necessary in order to be a healthy parent.”