Lorraine lied, telling Rosie that her belongings were with a friend she didn’t want to see because she was another drinker — and she wanted to stay clean.
Rosie understood, knowing it was a mistake for a drinker to return to old friends and old habits.
‘Okay. You can stay at my place.’
At the end of the day, Rosie waited for her outside the hospital. Lorraine was wearing an odd assortment of clothes. Nothing fitted — sleeves too short, the skirt waistband hanging around her hips. She carried a clean set of underwear in a brown paper bag, and seemed even taller, thinner and stranger-looking than she had in the safety of the rehabilitation clinic. Someone had given her a pair of pink-framed sunglasses, the lenses so dark they hid her eyes. Seeing her in the bright sunshine, Rosie had severe doubts about taking her in. She wished she had not been so friendly.
Lorraine was silent on the long journey, as they changed buses four times. She didn’t like going back to her home territory, Pasadena, but then she didn’t really know any place any more. She was glad to have Rosie — even felt a strange desire to hold her hand, afraid she would lose sight of her.
Eventually they were walking along a wide road with small dilapidated bungalows, past a four-storey apartment block. Rosie pointed to a grocery store. ‘I shop there and live above that garage just a few yards along. It’s very convenient.’
Lorraine nodded. Even from this distance she had seen the liquor section in the store. Her body broke out in a sweat, her mouth felt rancid, and she licked her lips. As she stood at the counter next to Rosie, who was buying bread and salads and coffee, she felt like screaming. Her eyes constantly strayed to the bottles: she wanted a drink so badly she felt faint.
‘Here we are, now, you go up ahead. It’s so narrow, this staircase, I’m always tripping down... watch how you go, the fifth step is loose...’
They climbed up the wooden stairway and Rosie unlocked the screen door, then her front door. As she pushed it open a cat screeched and dived out between Lorraine’s legs.
‘That’s Walter. Go in, you first.’
Rosie’s tiny apartment was stiflingly hot, even with the blinds down. She turned on the air conditioning, which whirred noisily. There was a living room and one cramped bedroom with a tiny shower room attached. The kitchen was a messy corner of the living room. Rosie busied herself unloading the groceries, pointing out the couch for Lorraine to sleep on, bringing sheets and pillows.
‘Now, do you want some tea, or coffee, or something cold? I think I’ve got chilled Coke — or lemonade?’
Lorraine rested back on the sofa, rolling an ice-cold Coke can across her forehead. She was still desperate for a real drink. She gulped at the Coke, draining the can quickly.
Rosie held up a packet of cigarettes. ‘I thought you’d be needing one, so here.’ She tossed it over. ‘Now you clean up and run a comb through your hair, and then we should go, the meeting’s due to start in about an hour.’
Lorraine closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Maybe I’m a bit too tired today.’
Rosie loomed over her. ‘Today is when you really need to go, and I can arrange that you go every day for the first few weeks.’ Lorraine managed a weak smile and hauled herself to her feet, crossing through Rosie’s dusty bedroom into the small bathroom, which was crammed with jars of creams, tubes, and a vast array of worn toothbrushes and half-squeezed toothpaste tubes. Old tights were hung up to dry, large faded panties and a greyish bra pinned on a piece of string, so large Lorraine stared in disbelief.
She ran the water and bent down to drink it, gulping it down, then she splashed her face and reached for a threadbare towel. She looked at herself then, really studied herself, no drugs and stone-cold sober for the first time in years. The image that stared back was of a stranger. Her eyes were puffy, washed-out, red-rimmed, and her nose had small, white-headed spots at each side. She caught sight of her yellowish, stained teeth, the gap in the front. The scar stretched her cheek slightly, an ugly reminder of a past she wanted to obliterate. She traced the outline of her cracked, swollen lips and then ran her hand through her thin hair, strands of it coming away. It looked as if someone had hacked it haphazardly, any way but straight. Maybe she’d even done it herself, she couldn’t remember. There were not just days or weeks or months she couldn’t remember but whole years.
Rosie rapped on the door. ‘What are you doing in there?’
Lorraine took a deep breath. ‘Just washing. Won’t be long...’ As she dried her hands she gazed at the stains along her fingers, the nails jagged, bitten and dirty, Everything about her was hideous: she was revolting, she disgusted herself, she was disgusting. And deeply angry. She didn’t know this person. Who was she?
Rosie looked up from the sofa and smiled. ‘You ready?’
Lorraine looked around for the pink-framed sunglasses. She pushed them on, as if to hide behind them. ‘Thank you for taking me in like this. It’s very good of you.’
Rosie, searching for her keys, wafted her hand. ‘I made a vow, because somebody helped me out when I was down. I promised that I’d help someone else if I could. I guess that person is you.’
Lorraine sat at the back of the meeting, hands clenched, face hidden behind the sunglasses. The other people there had greeted her with such warmth that she had wanted to run out of the building. Gripping her hand, Rosie had found her a seat. She was introduced only as Lorraine. Nobody gave their last name unless they wanted to. As the meeting began, Lorraine was able to look at the others. None looked in bad shape though a few had a lost air about them, as they sat with their heads bowed, or stared into space. Slowly she began to pay attention to those who told their stories.
One woman recalled how she had not known who she was for fifteen years, because those years had merged into one long, blurred binge. Now she was smart, and positive, and proud that she had been dry for four years. She had met someone who had given her love and stability. Soon, she hoped, she would have the confidence to tell him that she was an alcoholic. He had been so embarrassed for her when, sober, she had tripped over a paving stone and fallen flat on her face. She laughed then, saying that she hadn’t had the heart to tell him she had been face down on the floor more often than she had been upright. She grew emotional, lifting up her arms as if she were at some Baptist church meeting. Lorraine sighed with boredom. ‘I’m standing upright now, and I intend to remain this way, just as, when I get a little stronger, I will tell him that I am an alcoholic. Hopefully he will come to one of our meetings so he can fully understand my illness and that I believe, at long last, I am in recovery. I want to recover — just as I know I will always be an alcoholic. I am an alcoholic. Thank you for listening to me, thank you for being here. God bless you all...’ She burst into tears and many people clustered around her, hugging her, congratulating her.
Lorraine remained at the back of the hall, embarrassed by the show of emotion. She was glad when the meeting ended, refusing to hold other members’ hands as they prayed together for strength and guidance. Rosie, on the other hand, was very into it all, her eyes closed, clutching the hands of two elderly women.
Later, back at the apartment, Rosie was full of enthusiasm and energy. ‘Those meetings saved my life. Some people have been going for ten or fifteen years. When you face what you are it doesn’t stop. You will always be an alcoholic. One drink, and you’re back at square one. What you’ve got to understand is that you have an illness, and it kills you. If I hadn’t stopped drinking I’d be dead now, as would most of those people there tonight.’
She set the table, splashed water into glasses, clanking ice cubes. She was sweating even more than usual from the heat of the stove. Even at seven in the evening, the air conditioning was so half-hearted that the temperature in the apartment was nearly eighty degrees.