The world spun painfully slow since Tara had taken a drink, or anything to quiet the panic she was suffering in every cell of her being. Her body was convulsing inside; her cold, sweaty skin crawling like a pit of thirsty snakes. As she sat in bed trembling, her knees drawn to her chest, she suddenly remembered the card that the dealer had given her at the bar. She scurried to her purse and fished around for a moment until she found it. A flash of excitement replaced the panic until she looked up to see Lila staring back at her; a framed photo of her daughter’s smiling face was sitting on the bedroom dresser—right where Grampa John had placed it.
Clutching the card in her shaky hand, she jumped back into bed and embarked on a decision of sheer torment; her mind alternated between the drug dealer’s promise and the needs of her innocent child. Just when she thought her body’s desperation to get high had finally won out, her maternal will launched an offensive and regained some ground. Back and forth it went, while she wailed and screamed and wondered why Grampa John would not come to her rescue. She doubted that George—even George—had ever fought such a ferocious battle. She felt like her entire existence was circling the drain.
When there were no tears left and her trembling body had turned into a rubber band, she gathered enough strength to walk downstairs.
The old man was sitting on a kitchen chair at the bottom of the stairs, where he’d been patiently waiting.
“I need help,” she confessed, while hurrying the rest of the way to him. “I can’t fight this alone anymore.”
He stood, pulled her into his chest and squeezed just hard enough so that she could still breathe. “Well, alright then,” he whispered. “Let’s go find you some backup.”
As she convulsed in his arms, she handed him the drug dealer’s card. He glanced down at it, crumpled it in his massive hand and thrust it into his pocket. “Go get your coat on,” he said. “There ain’t no time to waste.”
Grampa John insisted on waiting for Tara in the truck outside. “You don’t need to be leanin’ on any crutch for this. It’s time to stand up and face it, sweetheart.” He stared into the windows of her soul. “And you can do it, Tara. I know it as much as I’ve ever known anything my whole life.”
She kissed his cheek and tried to fill herself with his belief in her. She stepped out of the pickup and ascended the daunting stairs to The First Baptist Church’s hall.
Once inside, each footstep echoed off the walls, as she approached the circle of chairs located in the center of the massive room. Eleven people of different ages, colors and genders looked up as she approached—all of them wearing the same smile that Grampa John wore. She couldn’t figure it.
“Is this AA?” she asked, her constricted throat barely allowing her voice to escape.
An older woman stood and extended her hand. “Yes, it is, dear. Welcome.”
Tara shook the woman’s hand and was about to take a seat when she stopped. If I don’t do it now, I may never, she thought, a wave of anxiety begging her legs to run.
“Is there something you want to say?” the woman asked.
“I … I’m Tara … and I’m …” She paused, trying to breathe away the dizziness. “I’m … an alcoholic.”
“Hi Tara,” the group sang out in unison.
Tears streamed down her face. “And a drug addict,” she added shamefully. The weight of the moment pulled her down into her seat, where she scanned the circle. Everyone was still wearing that same smile. She thought for a moment before it hit her. There’s no judgment, she realized. I’m not being judged. She let her tears flow freely.
In the brutal days that followed, Tara paid for all the sins she had committed—and then some. Physically, she was as sick as she’d ever been, suffering flu-like symptoms that dropped her to the bathroom floor where she thanked God for the feel of the cold linoleum on her face. Her skin crawled and itched. Her mind throbbed and spiraled out of control. But she fought valiantly; she fought for Lila and for a future she hoped they would share.
From one hour to the next, her body ached for alcohol, drugs—any fix; hours spent in mental hell until finally collapsing from sheer exhaustion. But the night sweats were the worst, always accompanying the nightmares; horrid dreams that bullied her from her sleep, leaving her panting and filled with panic. Each time, for the first few moments, she struggled to understand where she was. And then it hit her. It’s gonna start again, she realized, terrified. Oh, dear God …
Day after day, Tara prayed hard, attended her AA meetings and managed to get sober. She fought with the strength of a mother’s love.