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“That’s fine. I can do $700. Month-to-month only. I’m not moving in, so much as visiting for a while. I leave at 6 a.m. for my route, so we probably won’t see each other except at meetings. And I get half of your closet.”
“Deal,” Gia reached her hand over the duffle to shake on it. She’d either made an excellent financial decision or a horrible romantic one. The electricity raging through her veins from a simple handshake had her mind spinning. How was she going to inhabit the same space as Roxi, knowing she was sleeping right outside her own bedroom door? One night was one thing, but—a month? Or more?
???
Another Tuesday. Another meeting. Another chance to sort out why her mother was how she was and how to avoid becoming a younger version of the same person. For as long as Gia could remember, one of her main objectives in life was to not become like Gianna. It was relatable, she felt. Many people didn’t want to morph into remakes of their parents. Her desire was like so many others, just more extreme. Which is how she told herself she was as a person. Like everyone else, just more extreme. OG could out drink, out smoke, out flirt, out just-about-anything, anyone. New Gia tried every day to let go of those tendencies. Sometimes she won, sometimes she lost, but each day brought new opportunities to keep trying.
With trying came accountability. Her Tuesday meeting kept her accountable. It was because of Mikael and the regulars that she hadn’t slipped back into the comfortable numbness of a whiskey-induced bender when Gianna showed up and disappeared without so much as a “goodbye.” It was due to the promise she’d made to herself and the group that she hadn’t tested the waters with Roxi when she moved in. Willpower was one thing and one thing only: overrated. Promises made to others were the reasons Gia walked into the Church of Christ with her head held high and her conscience clean.
September had come and gone in a series of days just like the ones before them. Like the reliability of a syndicated TV show on late night TV, with its friends and enemies and love interests, the cast of characters in her life had stabilized. She had her colleagues, her meeting buddies, her kooky, but sweet neighbor, and Roxi. It was mid-October, and though palm trees didn’t indicate changing seasons, Gia felt it in her core. The air was becoming tolerable—pleasant, even. People’s moods were improving. Stocking shelves in the middle of the night was a breeze—she’d mastered the game of novelty-food Tetris, and management had noticed. She was already up for a promotion that would have her working days behind a desk, managing and ordering stock. Good things were happening, she reminded herself. Life was going her way for a change, and it was a welcome change.
But regardless of the shifting of seasons and of her fortunes, for that hour, she was Gia, and she was an alcoholic.
“Welcome, everyone,” Mikael started the meeting from his position against the back wall, St. Peter presiding in stained glass as he always did, keys to heaven in his grip. “This week, I thought we’d do something a little different to start. I asked a colleague from the community college to come talk with us about vulnerability before we share. Please join me in welcoming Charmagne.”
Soft clapping led to a petite woman stepping from behind Mikael, eyeglasses perfectly round, frizzy tawny hair wild on top of her head. “Thank you, Mik,” she said and began to speak. Gia looked at her and pretended to listen while thinking about her upcoming promotion and what it would be like to sleep at night again, instead of the day. Roxi sat to her left—her usual location—and shifted in her seat. The creaking of plastic rubbing metal didn’t deter Charmagne, who continued to explain why being vulnerable was the best route to authentic relationships. Why telling people what you need from them would help them better show up for you.
“And when we have authentic relationships,” Charmagne said, hands tented in front of her thin middle, “we have more fulfilling relationships. When we can be truly honest with each other, we don’t have to hide behind drugs and alcohol.”
As if, Gia thought. If it were as simple as being authentic with each other, the world wouldn’t have any problems.
“Thanks, Charmagne,” Mikael intervened, “Does anyone have questions for our guest before we share?”
“Yeah,” Roxi stood and pointed in a circle around the room. “You’re saying none of us would be here if we knew how to build authentic relationships?”
“Well, I wouldn’t—” Charmagne pushed the glasses onto the bridge of her nose. “I mean, that’s part of it, yes. But I’d rather you look at it as a tool to put in your toolbox for the future. Building vulnerability into your relationships can help in times when you need a little extra.”
“Are you an alcoholic?” Roxi dug her heels in.
“No.” Charmagne looked at her questioner. She practiced what she preached. Which was admirable, considering she was in a church.
“Then how do you know whatIneed when I want to say ‘fuck it’ and have a drink? Textbooks and studies don’t replace what’sreal.”
Gia looked on as Roxi said what she herself was thinking. The entire group did too, including Mikael, whose body language gave away his uneasiness. Perhaps his guest speaker idea was just shy of the bullseye. Sounded good on paper; not so much in practice.
“There’s no way I can, um—what’s your name?” Charmagne spoke with a slight Southern accent and smiled broadly to punctuate her question.
“Roxi.”
“Roxi, there’s no way I can know what you need, but studies have shown that fulfilling relationships can fill a void that drugs and alcohol can’t. We’re all just trying to fill the void. Whether it’s with food or love or alcohol—we’re all trying to plug the hole to feel better. So, while I don’t know what it feels like to fill it with alcohol, I do know what it feels like to fill it with things that aren’t good for me.”
“Like?” Roxi pushed.
“Bad relationships,” Charmagne said, matter of fact. “I have filled the void over and over with the wrong person, and when a relationship doesn’t work out, I replace it with another. You see, everyone has something.”
“They do.” Roxi sat, a silent approval of Charmagne’s answer.
“Good question,” Gia whispered to her left, hand finding Roxi’s running tight-clad thigh for a momentary reassurance. To the outside observer, it probably looked like one lover comforting another.
“Gracias,” Roxi whispered back.
“Alright, if that’s all, why don’t we share, hm?” Mikael regained control of the meeting, leading it into familiar territory. “And let’s say thank you to Charmagne for the, um, thought-provoking material.”
Faint clapping led to silence, which led to chair and feet shifting. The A/C whirred in the background, its services still required, even in fall.
“Anyone?”
“I’ll go,” Gia said, crossing her legs and leaning back into the chair. “My name is Gia and I’m an alcoholic. It’s been 107 days since my last drink. I get what Charmagne is trying to tell us, and truthfully, it’s what I want to talk about—relationships. My mom visited last month, and it was mostly okay. She pretended to be sober for like a week, tried to be nice to me. Bought me off with some furniture for my apartment that I don’t know how she paid for. I actually thought it was going pretty well, and then, like she fucking always does, she vanished. I shouldn’t have been surprised—that’s her M.O. Pretend to be present, give me some presents. Then, disappear. I needed some time to process it before I could talk about it, and now I realize, she is who she is and I have to forgive her.”
