Coldwater. Diana Gould

Would you get that down from there, precious?” She pointed to a box on a shelf over the sink where the meeting kept its supplies.

      The young man looked around to see whom she was addressing. He had sallow skin and newcomer eyes, a look that managed to say “help me!” and “fuck you!” at the same time.

      “What’s your name?” she asked, as he reached for the box.

      He put it on the counter. “Greg.”

      “How long have you been with us, Greg?”

      He ran his hand through his thinning wisps, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. “Twelve days.”

      “Twelve days!” Boots shook her head with a look of wonder you’d expect had her grandchild dressed himself for the first time. “Well, Greg, come meet Brett. She’s got even less time than you. You can tell her how it works.”

      I was filling the pot with water from a faucet at the sink, but I stopped to wipe my hands on my jeans, and offer one of them to Greg. I don’t know which of us felt more foolish. Or whose hands were sweating more. Neither of us made eye contact.

      “It gets better,” Greg mumbled, but neither of us believed it.

      Boots told Greg to bring the box of supplies into the meeting room and set them out. “When you’re done, come back, and I’ll give you something else to do.”

      “Who is she? The woman asking for Mike?”

      “I’ve never seen her here before. I thought she might be new. But she said no, she was just looking for Mike and knew he came here every Wednesday.”

      “What did she look like?” I asked, surprised at the twinge of jealousy I felt. People were starting to amble into the meeting room, saving seats for themselves by putting down car keys and business cards, before mingling.

      “Scared,” answered Boots, “but then, who isn’t?”

      Greg and I set out the donuts and cookies while the coffee brewed. The room was beginning to fill. There was a hum of conversation, laughter, hugs. Greg and I hovered by the imaginary shelter of the coffee table. A few people remembered me from yesterday, and greeted me warmly. I introduced them to Greg. “He’s got twelve days.” Greg was welcomed with grins, handshakes, and hugs. Even though Greg’s hands were sweaty and still shaky, he started to loosen up under the onslaught of bonhomie. When the coffee was ready, I poured myself a cup, added sugar, and cast my eyes around the room for Mike.

      He wasn’t hard to miss when he arrived. I remembered now his penchant for loud Hawaiian shirts. The one he wore tonight sported hula girls in grass skirts swaying under palm trees. Mike entered like a hero, shaking hands and hugging almost all who came in his path.

      I took my coffee and crossed the room.

      “Brett!” Ruth S., the secretary, waylaid me midway. “You’re new, aren’t you? Would you lead the meeting?”

      “Sorry,” I said. “I can’t.” I tried to push past her to Mike, but she blocked my way.

      “Please? The leader just called from her car; she’s stuck in traffic. It’s not hard. You just read from the format.”

      I tried to catch Mike’s eye, half-hoping he would get me out of this, though I knew he wouldn’t. A woman entered the room, and I was sure she was the one Boots had mentioned. She not only had red hair; she wore a red dress with a plunging neckline and red high heeled shoes. She scanned the room. Boots was right; she did look scared.

      The secretary tried to maneuver me towards the podium, but I pulled away and went towards Mike. The red-headed red-dress woman got to him first and whispered urgently in his ear. He frowned, glanced at his watch. She seemed upset, almost on the verge of tears. He followed her out of the meeting.

      The secretary caught up to me and showed me the loose-leaf notebook with the script I was to read introducing readers and speakers. She took out laminated copies of the steps, traditions, and promises, excerpts from AA’s “Big Book” and told me to ask for volunteers to read them.

      “I told you, I can’t,” I said, pulling away.

      “It’s how we stay sober,” she said kind, but firm.

      Mike and the woman had gone.

      I reluctantly agreed. Not knowing anyone, I went up to people at random and asked if they’d read the handouts. Everyone said yes and thanked me.

      It was still ten minutes before the meeting started, so I went outside to look for Mike.

      I’d left my jacket on my seat, and the ocean air was damp and cold on my bare arms. The sun had set, and the night was dark. A bare sliver of moon was pale and low in the sky. Somewhere nearby, a drummer was practicing, playing the same riff over and over.

      The parking lot was full. Cars arriving this late had to turn around and look for places on the street. People hurried into the meeting. I walked through the parking lot onto the street and looked in both directions.

      I didn’t see them until I’d walked almost two blocks down from the meeting. Mike and the woman in the red dress were deep in conversation. I started to walk towards them, but their body language shouted “private.” The woman was agitated, rubbing her arms and pacing as she spoke, anguish in her features. Mike spoke soothingly and calmly, but she kept interrupting him. Her manner registered not social anxiety but fear of a different magnitude.

      Her red dress was cut in a long “v” that revealed the tops of her breasts, and her high heels sunk into the ground like golf cleats. Mike said something to her softly; she whirled around to spit out an angry reply, the only words I could hear.

      “What if he finds out it was you? He’ll kill you!”

      Her heel stuck and her ankle twisted, and she stumbled. Mike caught her and stopped her fall. He took her in his arms, and she burrowed into his powerful embrace; the tears she’d been holding back finally spilled. Her shoulders shook with sobs. Mike held her as she rocked against him. A tall man, he looked over her head, to see who might be watching. Instinctively, I stepped back into the shadows. He seemed furtive, anxious, a man who does not want to be seen. He took her by the arm and led her away.

      I looked at my watch. 8 o’clock, time to start the meeting.

      CHAPTER 10

       “Jan 3. Caleigh doing sushi.”

      “Jan. 15. Hannah did sushi. PC took them to a party, and she did it with—you won’t believe this—Paolo Navarro!!!!! Am I crazy for saying no?”

      * * *

      Mike never came back to the meeting. I knew I had to go back to Gerry’s eventually, and I thought it might as well be now. Needing help was not my strong suit; one of the things I prided myself on was how little I asked of anyone. I drove back, made myself a cup of tea, and flipped through the pages of Julia’s journal. I copied every name I read into my notebook.

      It had begun to rain. Fat drops slashed against the window and trickled down the glass. Even in the dark, the ocean outside was dotted with white flecks of foam, crests of waves roiled by the winter storm.

      The sporadic entries spanned the years to the present; the entries I was reading now were from just last month.

      “Jan. 31. “OMG!!!!! Finally decided to do sushi with Caleigh and Hannah. PC set it up. Said it was up to me if I hooked up or not, all I’d have to do is go and have a good time, but if I hooked up, $$$$. Got to party and who was there!!!! Clinton!!!! OMG I wanted to die. Sooooooooo embarrassed, but he was totally cool about it. But now he knows...”

      “Feb. 11. Was doing sushi and ran into Brett!!!! Could she tell? She was so out of it, she probably won’t even remember, but OMG I thought I would die!!! What if she tells my dad????”

      What? Feb. 11? That was just a few days ago. When had she come to see me? Was it really just yesterday? I checked