I tune her out because I’ve heard this speech a million times before, but not from her. I’ve heard Leah say those exact same words to herself in the mirror over the years, and I know that right now my grandmother isn’t really talking to me.
She’s talking to Leah.
Chapter 3
Sometimes I try to make myself believe that the life I’m living isn’t really my life at all. I like to think that I’m merely an actress playing the part of a miserable girl who has very few options left.
That could possibly explain why I’m currently sitting in a brightly lit room with paper smiley faces hanging from the ceiling, staring at people who have been testing my last nerve for the past two hours.
“Miss Anderson?” A soft voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“Care to introduce yourself to the group?”
I sigh and stand up. “My name is Emerald Anderson... And I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Emerald.” The addict group says dryly.
I take my seat again and cross my arms, impatiently counting the remaining minutes of today’s session.
Everyone in this room is an alcoholic—except me, and if it wasn’t for this past Saturday I wouldn’t even be here. As a matter of fact, I’m still trying to figure out what exactly landed me in this room full of crybabies.
It was a typical Saturday and I was getting the mail: Another stack of rejections from the big publishers in New York—“Your writing is too descriptive for the market.” “Now is not the time for a story like this.” “We don’t believe you’d be a good fit for our agency, but we wish you the best in your ongoing search.”
Right after I taped them onto my “ceiling of failure,” I decided to check my email. Ten new messages that all said the same thing: “Thank you for applying, but...”
I needed to get away to breathe so I drove to a bar on the other side of town.
Four shots of vodka. Three shots of tequila. Three drinks from strangers I’d just met, and a seven shot jumbo margarita just for fun.
Child’s play.
It wasn’t enough.
I ordered two stiff brandy and gin concoctions—resulting in a raised eyebrow from the bartender, but I could handle it.
I could always handle it.
Hours later, when I was buzzed out of my mind, I convinced myself that I had a story idea that I needed to immediately write down. I stood up from the bar and stumbled outside, rummaging through my purse for my car keys.
Once I found them, I realized I wasn’t standing in front of my own car. Confused, I searched the lot in a daze—telling myself that I was definitely going to sleep in my backseat for a while before driving home.
There was vomit at some point—as usual, and then I realized I was standing in the middle of a street, holding a stop sign I didn’t remember picking up.
There were bright headlights. Then a sudden blackness.
That’s all I remember before seeing my grandparents bail me out of the county jail the next morning.
I honestly thought I’d served my time, but one hour apparently wasn’t enough.
The judge berated me for being “foolish, reckless, and utterly out of control” and blamed me for causing a driver to swerve off the road and hit a streetlamp. And that stop sign I’d picked up was supposedly “so new” that the city had yet to permanently cement it into the sidewalk.
I stared straight ahead and counted the paint cracks on the wall as she continued to tell me how awful of a person I was.
I was halfway listening until I heard her say, “Miss Anderson, you have two options. Since you are a first time offender and a community citizen—Virginia Marsh, has so adamantly vouched for your character...You can serve ninety days in the county jail and upon release be remanded to six months’ probation with an $8,000 fine for the city’s damaged property, or...”
She hesitated and I bit my tongue, hoping that the second option would be better.
“You can serve ninety days of community service with the $8,000 fine, and attend mandatory rehab for the next three months.”
My lawyer tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “She’s being very lenient with you. Take it.”
Now that I’m listening to a woman cry about how her daddy never loved her, I’m starting to think I should’ve picked the first option.
“That’s why I turned to alcohol,” the woman says. “Whiskey loved me back.” She’s sobbing ten times louder now, shaking her head and being absolutely pathetic.
The twenty other people in the room are chanting words of encouragement—“It’s okay, hun.” “Let it all out.” “Way not to hold back.”—and she wipes her eyes and smiles.