Volume Three - WordPress.com — Get a Free Blog Here

got to ride in the front passenger seat of the White Rabbit, our car. I reached for Mom’s Pepsi can. “That’s my
ashtray, Jen. We’ll get you something to drink soon.” As Mom lit a skinny cigarette, I inhaled deeply.
“I thought you were going to quit,” I said.
“I just said that so your father would stop lecturing me about it, to be honest, honey.” I listened to her sharp
inhale and slow release of smoke. “But I will quit. Is the smoke bothering you?” I said no.
We passed more homes, all of which began to look the same, squat, light-colored bungalows. Bored by the
view, I began asking Mom questions: Was I dressed okay? Are there any topics that might impress her secret
friends? Would we be gone long? Did we have to go back? Could we get dessert after? She waited patiently
and then asked if I was quite finished asking questions. After I promised that I was, she explained that the
people we were going to see weren’t secret friends, just people I hadn’t met. The rest of my questions would be
answered soon enough.
We pulled into a church parking lot. “Church? Really?”
Mom looked over at me and cupped my face as she explained: “The people in this place are recovering from
drug and alcohol addictions. We all gather here to share our stories and help each other to stay clean.” I tried to
nod, to show I understood. I wanted nothing more than to meet her friends and make them my friends, too. I
never once that day considered that my Mom might be at that meeting for her own support, too. She was the
caretaker; the force that made my bruises hurt less. She was the sponsor.
We walked into a large basement room with a tiled floor. There was a wall of smoke so thick that it almost
camouflaged the doorway. Once inside, I needed a while for my eyes to adjust to the florescence. There was a
table set up with coffee and cookies. There were many scrawny men and women, all with long cigarettes like
Mom’s. I felt nervous as I gazed around at them. All of them, it seemed, staring at me. Some of them looked
ill; they looked somehow relieved. I kept my eyes on the white and grey speckled tiles.
“Is that Red?” The voice was familiar.
“Jane?”
I looked up, hoping I was right. “Hi!” I said, elated and relieved that I knew one of these adults, my “Aunt”
Jane, Mom’s best friend.
“Hi, baby. I like those earrings,” she said. Jane was glamorous, a tall woman with hair that was redder than
my own. She dazzled, ear to wrist, with matching diamonds.
“Thank you. I like yours. They remind me of Madonna’s.” That was stupid thing to say, I told myself. My
face flushed. She didn’t notice.
“Very nice,” she said and gave Mom a hug. “Come on, sweetie, let’s find some seats.” Jane led me to some
of the few empty chairs in the room. “Hey, Jimmy, can you scoot for this lovely lady?” Jimmy was a tall wisp of
a man in sagging clothes and a diamond in his left ear.
“For a lady as lovely as that? Of course, but I didn’t know you had a little one.”
“This here is Anita’s kid.”
“Oh! Well, for Anita’s kid, I’ll scoot my butt over for sure. Sit down, kid. You know your Mom is a very
special lady? I think she may even be an angel.”
“Thank you,” I said, as I looked around the room, eager to see what would happen next.
“And what’s your name?” the man asked. His brown eyes were wide, as were his smile and waistline. I told
him my name quietly. He stuck out a rough hand and I looked up. My face grew red as I stuck out my hand to
shake. “Listen, you’re just in time for the speaker. We always have a speaker, usually Johnny. Then anyone who
wants to can get up and talk about what’s bothering them.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Are the cookies only for people who speak?”
The man chortled as though attempting to loosen something from his throat. He pulled out a cigarette and
lit it. It dangled from his lip, stuck there by some invisible glue, bobbing as he talked. “Do you want chocolate
chip or striped cookies?”
“Striped cookie,” I said, looking around for Mom. There was a group of men and women surrounding her.
“I’ll get them,” I told the man. “Will you save my seat?”
“Sure thing, princess.”