The basement of Green Lake Methodist served as a nursery and preschool during the day, but in the early mornings and evenings, it was Annie’s go-to AA meeting place. Straight out of church basement central casting: beige-and-white checkered linoleum floors, garish fluorescent lighting, and the mingled odors of finger paints, sour milk, and pee. On wet nights, the addicts’ damp clothing and skin carried a corrosive fug of cigarette smoke.
Motivational posters were tacked alongside cartoons of Jesus with his disciples: a rock climber clinging like a gecko to the face of a mountain precipice, with the tagline Persevere etched in a giant red font above his daredevil figure; a sheer cliff face pummeled by massive waves with Strength sketched solidly in white underneath.
Annie stared at the Strength poster as she waited for the meeting to begin, imagining herself at the top of that cliff, her future swirling unknown in the turbulent waters below. Would she still be descending rubber-lined steps into stale church basements fifteen years from now? Would this become the badge that defined her: failed runner, failed wife, recovering addict?
The meeting ended precisely at eight with a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. As the group gathered their bags and briefcases, she lingered. Her sponsor’s loose, watery laugh broke across the room like a stream over a gravel bed. Annie’s inner Rolodex catalogued her fellow AA attendees according to first name and years sober, adding in details as they were offered, and when she had the energy to hold on to them. She recalled the story of the man whom Bill stood chatting with at the kitchen bar: Peter, nine years, software developer at the Google offices in Fremont. There was something fragile about his round glasses and flyaway hair that made Annie want to protect him, yet it was he who often led the evening meetings, his soft, steady voice a balm to jarred emotions.
As she helped break down the circle of chairs, a few long-timers acknowledged her assistance with a nod and a smile, but no one forced a conversation. Headlights flashed through the ground-level windows as cars pulled out of the parking lot, illuminating the silver strings of rain that cascaded into the barren flowerbeds lining the foundation.
“Annie, I have a feeling you’re waiting on me.” Bill’s voice, as rough and comforting as a wool sweater, came from behind her. She turned, holding the metal folding chair a few inches off the ground.
When Bill had offered to be her AA sponsor after her second meeting here, she’d given a noncommittal, “Sure, thanks,” wondering what she could possibly have in common with a sixty-year-old who looked like a cross between Santa Claus and a Hells Angel. Now she couldn’t imagine navigating this over-bright, loud, racing-heart world of sobriety without him. Clean twenty years, Bill had named every single demon that sat on her shoulder, and he was helping her look them straight in the eyes.
“What gives?” He took the chair from her hands and added it to the stack propped against the wall.
She scanned the room. A handful of conversations continued, but almost everyone had made his or her way up the stairwell and to the exit. “I’m leaving town for a while,” she said.
“Because of Stephen?” Bill had been Annie’s only call the night she’d left home with an overnight bag and all her fears.
“It’s for work. I’m headed to Ireland.” Nervous now, she yanked the rubber band from her ponytail. Her scalp ached where the tight cap of hair fell free.
“Ireland?” Bill whistled soft and low. “That’s a hell of a business trip.” Bracing one booted foot against a cement pillar, he leaned back and tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather vest. “For how long?”
“I’m not really sure. A few weeks, a couple of months. I don’t know. As long as it takes.”
Bill raised an eyebrow.
“My doctor and my therapist both think that getting out of Seattle and away from some of my triggers is a great idea. Almost like a reward for what I did at Salish. And I need to focus on my job and my health right now. They’re about all I have left.” The explanation spiraled out of her in fragments as she tried to anticipate Bill’s doubts.
She didn’t tell him everything, however. Annie withheld how, after she’d promised to work her magic on the Eire-Evergreen campaign, the impulse to make a clean sweep had taken hold of her in a sudden fever. She’d rushed into her therapist’s office with the notion she could walk away from her marriage, her job, and the Northwest to start over. She’d gushed about picking up photography again, freelancing, trying for gallery shows. How she’d lose her demons in art. Dr. Lamott had embraced a temporary change of scenery, but cautioned her against plunging into a new life without a plan.
“See this through first, Annie,” he’d said. “Do the best you can for your job. Decide if your marriage is worth fighting for. Then come back and clean up after yourself. You have a lot of work to do.”
Bill surprised her now by saying, “Seems like sound advice to me. I can hook you up with some buddies in Dublin. Just say the word.”
“It’s just that … ” Annie began, and then faltered. The knowledge that she’d be on her own if things went wrong loomed before her, a murky pool with no discernible bottom. “I’m hoping I can call you. Just in case, I mean. If I need to talk to someone.”
Bill’s myopic eyes were blurred by his fingerprint-smeared glasses, but his bearded cheeks rose in a smile. “’Course you can call. Being a sponsor doesn’t stop when the time zone changes. And you’ll bring me back some of those Cadbury chocolates, right?” He crossed his arms over his oil-drum chest. “You know you got this, Annie. You can fly from the nest and you won’t crash.”
The lights dimmed. “Hey, folks, we need to close up shop. Is everything okay?” Peter had his hands on the panel of switches, ready to flip the rest of the lights.
“No, we’re done here.” Bill pushed away from the pillar. “Right, Annie? Time to fly?”
“Yes.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Just look at me go.”