Caoline turns to Gavin. He’s gay and he’s hooked on anonymous sex through Craigslist. “I haven’t been on Craigslist in a week,” he admits, and we all cheer him on.
Trey should go next. Only Trey’s not here. He hasn’t texted, he hasn’t called, and I haven’t heard from him since he took off this morning. That boy vexes me, and I have no clue what to make of him. Trey is a riddle I can’t solve. Is what I feel for him real or not? Wise woman does not know. Fortune cookie doesn’t tell her. I cannot figure it out, it is too foreign. Nor do I know what to make of my mom’s work. My mind keeps returning to the terrible blackmail story she’s researching, but I remind myself there must be thousands of extortion stories unfolding every day.
Joanne turns to me. “Layla? Anything you can share?”
“A victory?” I scrunch up my forehead. Can we discuss all the ways the opposing team pummeled me instead? Fumbles, interceptions, and then how I let myself be sacked. All the losses I piled up from my own weakness. Because I can’t defend myself. I am indefensible. I am what Miranda called me, and there are no excuses, there is no redemption, there is only the never-ending payment.
Victories, I scoff to myself. As if I’m capable.
But then, I remember this morning in front of the mirror, how I resisted the mascara, and it’s the smallest thing in the world, but it’s the biggest thing in the moment, because it’s my only hope right now. I latch onto it. “I didn’t put on much makeup this morning,” I offer, because that’s all I can come up with.
“Hey, every little bit counts. Step by step. Day by day. You can do it,” Joanne says.
I don’t know what I can do. All I know is what I can mess up. I am wading in the knee-deep quicksand of my mistakes.
When the group meeting ends, Joanne calls me aside.
“Hey. I know I said this the other night, but I’m here for you. If you want to talk. We haven’t had a one-on-one check-in in a while. You want to sit with me for a minute?”
“Sure,” I say half-heartedly because what else will I do? Trey’s disappeared, so I might as well talk to her. I don’t have anyone else to talk to. I can tell my mom everything about a kiss, a screw, a schlong, but god forbid, I tell her my heart has been taking target practice my whole life and it’s full of bullet holes.
Can you fix it, mom?
No, but how about a mani-pedi and a little dish on best bedroom tricks?
I head into a separate room with Joanne, who dips her hand into a canvas bag, and sets to work on her latest creation, an earthy-looking brown and yellow mass of yarn that appears to be transforming into a sweater.
“Check-in time,” she says with a bright smile.
“Is that a sweater for your fiancé?” I ask, beginning my ritual dance of avoidance. I hate telling Joanne things. I hate telling anyone things. I hate people knowing me. But I go through the motions because otherwise I’ll probably wander aimlessly around New York City tonight.
“It is,” she beams.
“Does he like sweaters?” I ask, another deflection.
“He does.”
“What are his favorite colors?”
“Green and brown.”
“Is this sweater a surprise?”
“Layla,” Joanne says gently, cocking her head to the side. “Let’s talk about you. How was your week?”
“Good.”
“Now that is just TMI, Layla.”
I say nothing.
“Sweetie. I want to help you. I want to be here for you,” she says.
Joanne is thirty-one and has been running this college branch of SLAA since her first marriage went up in flames a few years ago. She travelled a ton for business and dabbled on the side until her husband discovered what happened on the road.
The divorce was swift, painful and embarrassing. He logged into her Facebook account and posted a status update - I’m a lying whore who cheats on her husband. She lost business, she lost clients, she lost face, she lost him, and worst of all, she lost the dog. He kept their German Shepherd-Border Collie mix who they’d named Jeter because of their mutual affection for the New York Yankees.
That was four years ago. She hasn’t seen him or Jeter since. She also has been faithful and is changing. She’s now engaged to someone else. Someone she met last year. Someone who knows her history. Someone who loves her for who she was and who she is and who she’s striving to become. Someone she’s in a healthy relationship with, she’s said.
A healthy relationship — one based on trust, respect, honesty. I wonder what that’s like.
Joanne keeps talking. “I can see that you’re hurting. I can see you’re angry. Believe me, I’ve been there. You are amazing at hiding it, but I can see it in your eyes.”
“What do you see in my eyes right now?” Maybe she can find the answers that elude me.
“I see a girl wanting to change, but who feels stuck. Who doesn’t think she can. Who thinks she is damaged beyond repair.”
I wish I could say her comment shocks me or hurts me or cuts me to the core. That it’s a swift punch in the gut that makes me reconsider everything in my life. That makes me take stock. But it doesn’t. Because it’s what I’ve known for far too long. “Yeah, and that’s why sometimes I want to go back to the way things were,” I admit.
Joanne nods thoughtfully as her needles click, and the sweater slowly grows. But there’s no judgement in her eyes. No condescension. “Feels easier sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Safer, right? To go back to the past.”
“Definitely,” I say, in 100% agreement.
“That’s the thing.” She lays down her knitting needles. The room is silent now except for the low hum of the air conditioner churning out cool air. “The past is alluring. It puts on rose-colored glasses and seduces us. But if you return, you’ll only need more of the drug. You’ll need a bigger dose. You’ll need more to take the pain away. Remember, the pain is the arrow coming out, not the arrow going in.”
Her words trip me back in time. To Trey giving an alcoholic a tattoo saying that. Would this ache go away once the arrow is out? Or will I always hurt? Will I always feel wounded? “But how do you know? How do you know the pain isn’t just the pain? How do you know the pain doesn’t last?”
“Here’s how,” she says, her voice clear and precise as she keeps her eyes fixed on me. “Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“Do you see a lying, cheating, whore?”
I recoil. “No! God no. I see you. You’re the woman who runs SLAA. You’re the pink-haired lady who knits.”
“So I’m not a bad person to you?”
I shake my head. “No. No. No.”
“Good. Because I was you. I am you. I will always be you. A sick person trying to be well. Not a bad one trying to be good. That’s how I know the pain subsides. Because I’m here. Because I made it through. I made it beyond. I survived. And you can too. Whatever is weighing you down now will pass.”
I start tapping my foot against the frayed brown rug and I know I won’t last much longer taking my medicine. There’s only so much you can down in one sitting. But then, maybe the medicine is working, maybe it’s churning up all the vile things inside me that need to come out, because the next thing I know I am spilling it all, only this time someone is here to listen. “It’s too much. It’s all too much,” I say, the words rushing out, landing on top of each other in a pile-up. “My mom talks about her sex life all the time and always has, the woman blackmailing me will never let up, the guy I think I like for real is the most confusing person I know, and the man who took care of me and made me who I was is the only person I can trust. It’s all safer and better and easier with him. My life is spiraling out of control, and I just want to return to the one thing that made sense. That felt good. That felt like I was living my life on my terms, not anyone else’s.”
I hold my hands out wide, and stare at her. Solve this, pink-haired lady.
“I know,” she says. “I know it feels like you can’t hold on. But you are more than those things that hold you back. You don’t have to listen to your mom talk about men. You can walk away when she does. You can tell her you don’t want to hear about her boyfriends. You can start with that,” Joanne offers and it sounds so simple and possible when she suggests it.
But I don’t know that I’d have to guts to walk away. “I don’t know if I can do that,” I say.
“And as for this guy,” she says, and now she slows down, speaks carefully, as if this is a delicate subject. “Is this boy Trey? Are you and Trey still spending a lot of time together?”
“Why are you asking?” I press my spine against the back of the metal chair, digging away from her trying to know the real me, the me I am with Trey.
“Because I know you’re friends.”
“Right. And you disapprove because I haven’t been in recovery for a year yet,” I say, raising my walls once more. I can’t let them down for long.
She shakes her head, smiles sympathetically. “Layla – if that’s even your name and I doubt it is, but I respect your privacy – I’m not going to say the heart wants what the heart wants, because if we followed that line of false wisdom that we’d all be partaking of our vices. But I will say this. Sometimes you meet someone in recovery and it feels like the real thing, but it’s not. And sometimes you meet someone in recovery and it is the real thing, and I’d be a fool if I told you to stay away. Because SLAA is not like AA or NA. You’re not going to withdraw completely from sex and love. All I want is for you to be able to have a healthy relationship at some point, if that’s what you want. And if the real thing comes along, I want you to have the strength and fortitude to deal with all the messiness and yuck-iness and problems, but also the wonder and potential and possibility of the real thing. And I think you can only have that if you can step away from the hold the past has on you.”