Other Broken Things

To Julio, love of my life.

And to Asher, who helped me find my way out of this book.

I'd cut a bitch
for a cigarette right now. Unfortunately, I'm sandwiched in the car between inflatable Santa and inflatable Frosty and the only person within striking distance is my mom.

“You sure you don't want me to come in?” she asks as she tugs at her hand-knitted red-and-green striped hat. Mom is the mascot of the holiday season. Pretty sure she pees eggnog and her armpit odor is peppermint scented.

“It's a closed meeting, Mom. I told you that. Only the alkies get to go. Not their moms. Plus you've got to finish decorating.”

My fingers curl in and out of my palm. Someone at the meeting has to have a smoke.
Has to.

“I was looking online. There are some open meetings in the city. I could go with you to those.”

I wave my hand. “Mom. Stop. I'll be fine. I went to a meeting every day in rehab. I know the drill. Pick me up in an hour.”

I shove Frosty to the side and push open the backseat door. Yes, I'm in the back. Like a toddler. The passenger seat has been taken up by inflatable Rudolph. I slide out and Mom turns down “Feliz Navidad” long enough to call out to me.

“Proud of you, Natalie. You've got this.”

I wave again, resisting the urge to give her the finger, and turn away so she doesn't see my eye roll. Mom's obviously fit time in her busy holiday schedule to read some of the
Big Book
—Alcoholics Anonymous's bible to getting my shitty life together, told through a series of steps and stories of pathetic losers just like me. Jesus.

The brown building in front of me is nondescript with the letters
SFC
on a plaque in front. As I step up to the door, my hands shake a little. Not from the DT's—you need to be way deeper down the rabbit hole than I ever got for delirium tremens—but from the whole business of it.

AA meetings are a requirement. Three times a week until I'm three months sober and then twice a week until I'm six months. Six months feels like for-fucking-ever at this point, but honestly, a month ago, six hours felt the same.

I pause outside the door and stare at the sign taped to the front. Meeting times, plus a plug about movie nights and a Sunday-morning pancake breakfast. There are three meetings every day. I can't imagine going to that many meetings in a day. What the hell for? How many times does someone need to hear the Serenity Prayer?

I slide my hand in my coat pocket and finger the card inside.
Go in, zone out, get your card signed
. Drawing in a deep breath, I push through the entrance and am immediately hit by the smell of BO and burned coffee. I blink my eyes a few times to adjust to the light and see I'm in a hallway. A door on my right says
FELLOWSHIP MEETING ROOM
.

Another breath, this time through my mouth so I don't have to deal with the BO stench. My heart is beating pretty hard. Even more than the first time I got in the boxing ring, a million years ago when I thought things were different.

There's a long mirror on the side of the door, like we somehow might feel the need to check our appearance before going in to confess our drunken transgressions. My ridiculously curly hair is pulled back neatly in a band, my slapdash makeup job is miraculously holding up from this morning, and the rest of me looks Abercrombie solid. This is definitely my 12-step best, so I'm not sure why I'm stalling.

Somehow, walking into a meeting room felt easier at rehab. Probably because I had a nurse escorting me. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the knob, pulling open the door. Wishing with everything I have for this not to be real.

The room smells too. Different, though. Like musty books and defeat. Yes, defeat has a smell. A distinct cigarette smell, with zero traces of alcohol. An old woman near the door looks up and smiles a little at me. A quick scan around the room shows three black dudes in conversation around the big table, an obviously drunk or hungover Hispanic dude with his head leaned against the back wall, and a white guy talking to a woman with red hair and a scowl on her face. The white guy looks up when I enter and nods at me.

No beaming smiles or welcoming committee here. No one's happy to see me. They're all dealing with the same shit. I'm another soldier who's been drafted into the army of addiction. Hardly cause to celebrate. On the plus side, from the look of things, there's no way anyone here is going to be digging that deep into my business, which means I won't have to think—something I've gotten excellent at in the past month.

I unwind the scarf at my neck—hand-knitted by Mom, of course—and plop into a chair at the table. A quick glance at the clock shows I have five minutes before the meeting starts. I need to time this better. Or bring cigarettes next time so I can smoke beforehand. But I finished my last one this morning, sitting on my window ledge and watching Mom hang icicle lights. She frowned when she saw the cigarette, but didn't say anything. She's been on me about them since I got back, but she must have figured a lecture about them would have been less than welcome this morning.

The red-haired lady stands up from the table and approaches me. Ah. Meeting leader. I know by now talking to the newbies is part of their job.

“Kathy,” she says, sitting in the plastic chair next to me. “First meeting?”

“First meeting here. Not first meeting ever,” I mumble in response. Wonder if I could get her to sign my card now and then leave the meeting early. I give her a long look and realize she's not the type to break rules. She's got that hard-living look about her, and if she's a meeting leader, she's been in AA awhile now.

“Got a sponsor?” she asks.

“No. I'm just out of rehab.”

She nods and I catch the white guy watching us. Not even slyly. Just openly staring. I have an urge to flip him off, but I doubt it'll earn me any brownie points and I have a card I need filled up.

“Take out your phone,” Kathy says. I pull out my cell and she snatches it from my hand like she's going to confiscate it. Instead she presses some buttons and hands it back to me. “I'm in your contacts now. Call whenever.”

“Natalie,” I say.

She nods again and gets up. “Find a sponsor, Natalie. You're too young to be in here.”

I almost roll my eyes, but that'd just be proving her point. I am too young. Seventeen. Way too young for rehab. Way too young for AA. It's all sort of bullshit, but to say my parents are overprotective is an understatement. So here I am. Two days out of rehab, two months after a DUI, surrounded by people who don't know anything about me, with a court card in my pocket, and wanting to beat the crap out of just about everyone.

Happy fucking holidays.

“This is the twelve thirty
closed meeting of the Stevenson Fellowship Center. The only requirement for attendance is a desire to stop drinking. Calvin, can you please read ‘How It Works'?”

I look at my Uggs and let the drone of Calvin's voice wash over me. I've heard the “How It Works” speech dozens of times. I could practically recite it in my sleep. And Calvin is a mumbler so it's not like I could understand him anyway. I want to shut my eyes like the Hispanic guy in the back. His mouth has dropped open slightly and he's either passed out or he's fallen asleep. For the hundredth time I think how I don't belong here.

Driving was stupid. I get that. But I wasn't plastered. I've been way drunker, and frankly, the whole thing would've been fine if I hadn't hit wet road. And if I hadn't been distracted by the shit show of my life. The “legally drunk” thing is sort of bullshit. You hit your legal limit after one drink. I've seen people have way more than that and be perfectly fine driving home. It's all a scam between insurance companies and the government to squeeze more money out of the working class. I'm not saying people should drive loaded, but seriously, three drinks is hardly shit-faced, despite what a Breathalyzer might say.

The topic for the meeting is the Second Step:
Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity
. Cue zone-out time. The higher power thing is a really big part of AA. At first I got into all sorts of arguments in rehab about how scientifically, God just isn't possible, but I quickly realized that wasn't getting me any closer to being released or convincing my therapist that I'm fine. So now I tune it out and nod when other people talk about their spiritual awakening as if it isn't all a big fat crock.

As the three black guys drone on about getting right with God, I examine the room. The main wall behind Kathy has huge signs on either side of the door. The Twelve Steps on the left, the Twelve Traditions on the right. I still haven't exactly figured out the Twelve Traditions. Seems like it was sort of slotted into the program so people didn't turn AA into a moneymaking organization. Fools.

The rest of the room is brown paneling and bookshelves filled with self-help books and framed pictures of guys who were presumably important to the AA organization. I don't have the first fucking clue who any of them are, though I guess one must be Bill W. The giant clock on the wall draws my attention and I count seconds along with it as the old woman who smiled at me when I walked in starts to talk about medication and the Good Lord. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . .

The room has gone quiet and I look up to see everyone staring at me. Crap. I blush a little as the white guy shifts forward in his chair and drops his hands on the table.

“My name is Natalie, and I'm an alcoholic.”—“Hi, Natalie.”—“Grateful to be here today. I think I'd prefer just to listen.” I've said this more than a dozen times over the last month. It's a mantra as much as anything else in my life. And it gets me out of having to share anything. I couldn't do it all the time in rehab, because my therapist sort of caught on to it, but I did it as much as I could.

The white guy has tats on his knuckles. I notice the letters of
KILL
on the left one. And some weird symbols on the right one. This is unexpected, as the rest of him looks pretty clean-cut. As clean-cut as you can look in AA. Jeans without holes. Flannel button-down over a long-sleeve white tee. Clean-shaven. Blond hair that isn't too long or shaggy. If I had beer goggles on, I might say he's a Bradley Cooper look-alike. And no dark shadows under his eyes. He's been sober awhile, I'm guessing.

The rest of the meeting carries on, but I don't listen to anyone. There's a thin strip of windows above the bookshelf and I mostly stare out at the gray sky. In the end Kathy lets us go early—which never happened in rehab—because no one else has anything to say. We circle up and I find myself holding hands with the white guy—Joe, I think—as we say the Lord's Prayer together.

My gaze stays too long on the
KILL
on his knuckles as the group chants, “Keep coming back. It works if you work it . . . sober.” Everyone else has let go of each other and started to disperse.

“Can I get my hand back?” Joe says, and I drop it like I've been burned. God. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Nice tat,” I say with a smirk.

He nods. “Saving up to get it removed. Or get a new one put on top.”

I wrap my scarf around my neck. “Trying to get your outsides to match your insides?”

He shakes his head in this way that reads like he's disappointed in me. Not sure what the fuck for, as I haven't done anything as far as he knows. “Dry drunk?”