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“Oh, thank you, dear, you really are a lifesaver.” Galileo licked his paws contentedly as Mrs. Edelman squeezed him tight. He wanted to be in the tree, couldn’t they see? “Let me get you some ointment for those scratches.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine. Just tell him to stop doing that! I have a ‘three strikes, you’re out’ rule!” Gia laughed as she turned toward the parking lot. Galileo didn’t care about her rules, shoulder, or that he’d caused her to get sap all over her white tank top. Ten bucks said he’d be up the tree again within a week.
“I’ll try, but you know how it is to cage a wanderer. I’m afraid he has a gypsy soul.”
Must’ve been the reason for his name, Gia thought. “I guess we have more in common than he knows! I’ll see you later, Mrs. Edelman. I’ve got to run.”
A quick click of the phone button reported it was 3:50. She had a mere ten minutes to drive what normally took fifteen. No time to change her shirt or worry any more over feline antics.
???
“What the hell happened to you?” Roxi whispered in Gia’s ear, cinnamon on her breath and urgency in her tone. Her chair creaked predictably as she leaned to her right. “Get in a fight with a tiger?”
“Oh, you know me. A stocker by night and superhero by day. Just defending the city from a vicious assassin.”
“Neighbor’s cat was in the tree again?”
“Yeah.” Gia nodded, hand finding shoulder. It had started to throb, the cold of the Fellowship Hall’s ample A/C stinging as it met the increasing heat of lacerated skin. She’d almost forgotten about her shirt—the sap splotches added an artist’s touch to her look. “What gave me away? The shoulder or sap?”
“Both. No matter what you think, you’re not exactly mysterious. I have a first aid kit in the car.Vámonos.I can patch you up real quick. Don’t worry, I have a good bedside manner.” Roxi winked. She was already standing, hand outstretched. She’d worn her hair in her signature high ponytail, and hot pink, skin-tight running shorts barely covered legs the color of honey. As the old song went, she had legs and knew how to use ‘em.
“That’s okay. It can wait. But thank you.” Gia hadn’t been late to a meeting yet—she wasn’t about to start.
“Suit yourself. But I don’t want to hear about it if you get cat scratch fever.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’stotallya thing,” Roxi insisted as Mikael started the meeting. “But whatever. Your loss.” Roxi wiggled her fingers a bit, as if to say, “I’m good with my hands.”
In the circle where she sat every Tuesday, Gia listened with intensity. Jacques led off that week, speaking of missing his family—especially his mother.
Gia hadn’t talked to hers in months.
The last time they spoke, her mom hung up on her in a rage. She didn’t even remember what caused their argument. Gia blinked back the tears that formed—she’d promised herself many times to let it go. You can’t change someone who doesn’t want to—she knew that one all too well. But thereitwas—on deck at the mere mention of someone else’s family drama. Letting it go wasn’t as easy in practice as it was in promises.
Somehow, a woman she hadn’t yet met was speaking—her intent listening had gone out the window the moment her mom took over her thoughts.
“Gia, would you like to share?” Mikael asked, his booming voice gentle, approachable. Had everyone else already spoken?
“Um—I’m good,” Gia said, then wondered.Wasshe good? She didn’t remember anyone after Jacques. Had she spaced out for half an hour?
“Okay then, have a great week everyone—”
“Actually, I do have something,” Gia interrupted, shushing the voice in her head that continued to insist she was fine. “It won’t take long.”
“Take as long as you need.” Mikael nodded an affirmation. It was okay to have needs.
“Alright, well, I’m Gia, and I’m an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in sixty-seven days. My job is good. I’m meeting a few people in town—” Gia looked at Roxi and smiled. “I’m journaling every day. I’ve got no complaints. But—”
“Yes?” Mikael coaxed.
“It’s my mom. She’s also an alcoholic. Has been since before I was born. I haven’t talked to her in a while, and—I guess I’m worried about her.”
Gia told of learning to read her mother’s moods and how different sides of her personality showed up depending on when, where, and how much she’d been drinking. She’d learned to identify her mother’s poison of choice by the aroma that lingered on her breath. “She’s fine on beer. A little loopy, but tolerable. Most people don’t even notice she’s been drinking if she’s stuck to beer. But on liquor, forget it. She gets mean. Accusatory. That’s when evil Mom comes out, the one who only speaks Italian and picks fights. That’s the last person I spoke with—evil Mom. Nasty, selfish Mom.”
“And you’re carrying that memory with you?”
“Well, yeah. How could I not?” Gia left out the part where she worried she was a carbon copy of her mother. She too, was “fine” on beer and less—enjoyable—on the hard stuff.
