Margery slipped into the church basement after the meeting began. Normally the room held a preschool class, but on Mondays and Wednesdays it was the location of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
It smelled like toddlers—grape juice and animal crackers and antiseptic spray. It was a comforting smell—or maybe it was the support she always found there that comforted her.
She’d realized, as she’d reached the airport, that if she went into that airport she’d find the bar, and she’d buy a drink, and then another.
Once again, she was running away. All her life, she’d always looked for a way out. Maybe it was time she looked for a way in.
So after parking her car at the Terminal B/C parking lot, she’d taken a taxi to the church where she’d known she’d find an AA meeting.
There were four others there—a gray-haired Black man, and two women in their fifties whom she’d met before, at other meetings. Her sponsor, Dana, was there, too. Margery had called her from the cab, told her she needed help.
She sat on one of the folding chairs, gripping her handbag in her lap. It didn’t matter if they saw her hands trembling—there was no need to hide what she was from these people.
When it was her turn to speak, she introduced herself: “My name is Bonnie and I’m an alcoholic.”
Before, when she’d come to these meetings, she’d said her name was “Margery.” Bonnie was dead, she’d told herself so many times. But since coming to D.C., since seeing Katie, she’d known Bonnie wasn’t dead.
It was time for Bonnie to speak up.
“I almost had a drink today. I was running away—again—from my problems. For the last five months, I’ve been living here, trying to get to know my daughter. I didn’t tell her who I was, I didn’t want her to know—” She paused. Speaking out loud about her failure was always painful, even among supportive strangers. “I didn’t want her to know that I’m the mother who abandoned her.”
The others just listened, not judging. They’d never criticize her for leaving her daughter, leaving her family. They’d never criticize her for being so drunk she’d filled her daughter’s bottle with spoiled milk. Or for the times she’d passed out during her baby’s nap time, eventually waking to screams in the nursery.
They’d all made parenting mistakes, at one time or another.
She looked at their impassive faces, their eyes soft with understanding. No, they weren’t judging her.
But Bonnie had judged herself.
“I left my daughter, twelve years ago, without a word. I thought I had to. I thought she was better off without me. But maybe I was wrong.”
They continued to listen, letting her take her time as she struggled to get the words out.
Margery looked down at her hands. They were shaking as if the basement were located at an outpost in the Antarctic, but the room was warm. “I—I’ve gotten to know her these last few months. I’ve been working at her school, as a volunteer. She didn’t recognize me. I thought if I just saw her—talked to her, helped her…”
She stopped. Confession might be good for the soul, but there were tripwires throughout her storyline.
Carefully considering her words, she continued, “But something happened, and I wanted to run away again. I was afraid—” No, that wasn’t right. Fear wasn’t exactly what she’d felt when the agent had spoken to her in the library. It was loathing. She loathed the woman who’d climbed out that window, who’d run to her car and bolted. “I was on my way to the airport when I decided to come here instead.” She gave a wry smile. “Which is why I’m not sitting at the airport bar, having my first drink in four years.”
Dana gave her an encouraging smile. “You made the right decision to come here, Bonnie. That’s the first step.”
“I don’t want to leave my daughter again. I want to know her, I want her to know me—with all my faults.”
Margery looked up. The women were gazing at her with eyes that told their own painful stories, the old man nodding his head in agreement. She looked beyond the circle of chairs. On one side of the room, a collection of children’s paintings were hanging on a clothesline to dry. Katie had once brought home paintings from her playgroup. Stick figures of families, the mother always lying down, while the father was always the biggest figure, strong and wise and safe.
She wondered what Katie’s paintings had looked like after she left. Did she forget about the mommy who couldn’t stand up straight by three in the afternoon? Margery hoped so. Katie had been a precocious toddler, but she’d barely been three when Bonnie left, too young to retain memories of her mother adding a splash of Jack to her morning coffee, or a shot of vodka to her orange juice.
When Katie picked up her Screwdriver and drank it herself, mistakenly thinking Mommy’s juice was safe…that was when Margery knew she had to leave.
Now, the thought of returning to her life—getting to know her daughter again—filled her with dread. It would mean letting go of her anonymity.
Becoming Bonnie again.
She could hear Dr. Cavallo’s voice. Face your demons.
Margery bit back a sigh. Ten years of therapy, and all they could come up with was “face your demons.” Her demons were all on the inside. Outside this church, they were looking for her. The agent would have alerted the police, and by now, even the president would know his ex-wife had reappeared.
The thought shamed her. She preferred him thinking she was dead. Dead women didn’t receive those looks they gave drunks, looks full of disgust. “Dear departed Bonnie” was a much more sympathetic figure than the woman who’d spent half her life lying in a dead stupor, too drunk to know her daughter was awake and had found sharp objects to play with.
“Bonnie? Do you want to say anything else?” Dana asked her.
Margery—Bonnie—gave her a weak smile. They’d previously said the Serenity Prayer; every AA member knew it by heart. “I’ve already accepted the things I cannot change,” she said, lifting her chin a notch. “Now I need the courage to change the things I can.”