For those of you waiting in anticipation for the fifth, and final installment of “The Hidden Shades of Norah“, read on for a tantalizing sneak preview.  Claire is anxious to hear your comments!!!

Three

 

There was only one women’s only Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and it was way across town.  After a hearty Mexican dinner, during which my parents eyed me curiously for not partaking in the family tradition of margaritas all around, Mom and Dad dropped me off for the women’s group.  They assumed, without my correcting them, that I was taking the first step towards getting help for myself in regards to my abusive marriage.  Mom had even gotten out of bed for the occasion, a great show of effort on her part.  She looked miserable, tired and sad, but her eyes were bright with love and hope.  I just couldn’t find it in my heart to correct the misunderstanding.  I wasn’t sure how she would take the news that I, Norah Williamson, was an alcoholic.

Dad eyed the middle-class neighborhood appreciatively.  The brick church building lacked the Bostonian charm, but it was clean and modern.  Nodding his head, Dad gave me a hug before getting back in the Jeep.  “Pick you up in an hour, Norah?”  The words left unsaid were clear.  I’m proud of you, you are doing the right thing.

“Welcome to AA.”  The young woman met me at the door with open arms.  “First time or long time?”

The tears began immediately and the awaiting arms turned into a second-hand smoke induced hug.  “Come here honey, we all have to start some time.  My name is Sandy and I’m an alcoholic.  I’ve been sober for twenty-five years.  One day at a time, you know?”

Sandy led me to an already lively group of women sitting casually in metal chairs.  The circle was arranged so that no one was really the center, but I felt like I was consistently the target of everyone’s curious stares.  Something about the raised eyebrows masked behind clouds of heavy smoke announced me as a stranger, an outsider.  They knew I didn’t belong before I did.  The No Smoking signs posted on all of the doors, and on each and every wall were more accepted than I felt.  At least, initially.

It was a curious episode in my life.  With plenty of group therapies behind my belt, I had never been so eager to talk, to work, to get things off of my chest.  Ian had set me to a task that I was more than willing to accept.  He had offered me a brand new brick to add to my wall of shame.  This brick would be golden.

“Hello, my name is Norah,” I announced proudly through clear, salty tears when my turn around the circle arrived.

“Hello, Norah,” a chorus of maverick voices greeted mine.

“I’m an alcoholic and I’ve been sober for,” I had to pause.  When was the last time I’d had a drink.  Oh yeah, yesterday with my Dad at lunch, “about a day.”  Appreciative nods rippled around the room.

“Is there anything you would like to share with us today, Norah?” Sandy asked calmly.  The other women around us exhibited various degrees of anxiety.  Legs shook, pens tapped, and coffee spilled over the sides of styrofoam cups.  Lighters flickered around the room as cigarettes were lit and cheeks sucked in and out like jellyfish blossoms.

Distracted by the miasma, I hesitated.  “It is all right if you don’t want to share.”  Sandy mistook my silence for fear, or worse, denial.

“No, I want to talk.”  My eyes circled the room.  Emptiness, longing, hope met my own sunken stare.  “I didn’t know I was an alcoholic until my husband told me.  He said that I had to start coming to AA meetings so that I could come home.  I ran away a week ago and now that I realize what I’ve done, I want desperately to go back.”

The temperature in the room shifted from clammy tension to icy cold, gritty anger.  For the first time since I’d arrived in that group, the empty eyes gained focus and the hopeful looked lost.  “I left him in Alaska, but I want to go home,” I repeated.  It suddenly seemed very important that these women understand.

“What do you mean, your husband thinks you are an alcoholic?  How much are you drinking?” asked a staunch, middle-aged woman.  Her long, gray hair hung heavily in waves down her back and she idly pushed it out of her eyes.  “Something tells me you aren’t telling us the whole story.”

“Hmm-hmmm,” the chorus agreed.  The rickety metal chairs squeaked.  Lighters flicked around the room as new cigarettes were lit.

“How much do I drink?” I asked aloud.  “Whenever he does, I guess.”  My fading, self-inflicted, black eye pulsed.

“And how often is that, Norah?” Sandy asked kindly.

“Once a week.  Or two.  Two or three beers.  Max.”

Giggles and laughter followed.

“Shit.”

“Classic.”

“What the…”

“Enough.”  Sandy got the group back on track.  “Norah, tell us why you left your husband.  The truth now, we want you to tell us the truth.”

Inside, the words began to form before the blockers could fly up, effectively trapping them.  “He wouldn’t let me leave the tent,” I blurted.  “He wouldn’t let me go for a walk or see people.  He burned my clothes.”  My body curled itself tighter and tighter into a ball.  With my chin resting on my knees, I shuddered.

I heard the box of tissues slide along the floor across the diameter of the circle.  The women’s voices remained silent, but a repressed moan of collective agony swept through them and up into me.

“You’re not an alcoholic, Norah.  You are a battered woman.  You did the right thing leaving this man.”  Sandy wrapped her loving arms around me.

The pooled cloud of smoke that suddenly dropped down around me reminded me of Grandfather’s sweet medicine.  The sweet medicine held in my medicine bag that had disappeared.  Inside the circle of women’s arms I found new strength and assurance, at least for the few moments they allowed me.

One thing about AA, it was for everyone.  After they dried my tears and held my hands, they moved on.  I sat and listened to tales of other women’s pain and felt a part of the river of sin that flows and flows.  Forever.

 

 

***********

 

 

I held my AA chip firmly in my cold hands all of the way back to the hotel.  The women at the meeting had firmly told me that AA was not the place for me.  There were plenty of other appropriate support groups, but not Alcoholics Anonymous.  After sharing more, they recommended my visiting a battered women’s shelter and filing a restraining order against Ian.  Both actions seemed harsh and unnecessary to my rattled wits.

The border around the AA triangle of my first day of sobriety chip said, “To thine own self be true.”  My own self needed to go back to Ian and fix things.  There was no way out of it.

“What are you holding, Norah?” my Mom asked when we got home and were all preparing for bed.

“Something they gave me at the meeting is all.  Something to remember them by.”  I tried to make it sound unimportant, but failed on all accounts.

“You mean you won’t be going back?” Dad asked, disappointment heavy in his tired voice.

“No, they said it wasn’t the place for me.”

My Mother stopped fluffing her pillow and my Dad sat heavily on the bed.  “Not the place for you, Norah?”  His voice held shocked disbelief.  “You are kidding me?”

“No, they agreed with me.  I’m not an alcoholic.”  I turned out my light and pulled Petra and Syd up close, allowing my body and mind to give into exhaustion.

My Mother groaned and collapsed into bed to my Father’s whispered words of comfort.  Something told me they fell on barren ears.