Watch Over Me (2 page)

"Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to
change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Keep coming back.
It works if you work it with a lot of love!"

The cheerfulness makes me want to roll my eyes, but instead I bite the inside of my
cheek just in case Dr. Thompson somehow found a way to keep her eyes on me. A circle
of twenty or so people unclasp their hands after the end-of-meeting prayer and disperse
to chitchat. I never understand how these people can smile and act normal after they
just spent an hour telling the room their deep, dark secrets. Like Diane, the woman
whose son overdosed on heroin this past weekend after he sold off all of her furniture
and jewelry to support his habit. Or Mike, the young husband whose wife drove their
two daughters to school drunk, went left-of-center a mile from the school, and crashed
into a telephone pole, killing the youngest daughter instantly.

Just as I've been doing for the past six weeks, I pick up my purse from the floor
and walk out of the room with my head down, not speaking to anyone.

I'm not going to lie. When Dr. Thompson handed me the piece of paper with support
group locations on it months ago, I crumbled it up and tossed it into my backseat
as soon as I got in my car. After ten months of talking ad nauseam about why I'm not
happy with my life, I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm a hopeless case and is just trying
to pawn me off on someone else without making it too obvious. She's certain I've gotten
over my "hump" and am no longer a threat to myself. Now, she wants me to lean on others
for help with my father.

This is the sixth Al-Anon meeting I've been to in six weeks. I honestly can't tell
you why I keep coming back. It doesn't "work if I work it" because I don't care to
work it. I never share my story, I never make comments about anyone else's hardships,
and I never make friends with any of the people I spend an hour with each week as
they pour their hearts out to a room full of virtual strangers.

Except they aren't really strangers. They all know one another, share with each other,
and lean on each other for support.
I
am the stranger in their midst. I am the weird girl who always sits just outside of
the circle and chooses to "pass" when the conversation makes its way to her each week.
I don't feel comfortable talking to people I
know
about my alcoholic father and how he's been in and out of rehab more times than I
can count in the past year and a half, let alone talking to people who know nothing
about me. I used to have no trouble talking to people, no matter who they were, about
my problems. But that was a long time ago, and my problems usually consisted of what
outfit to wear to school the next day or whether or not the boy I liked would ask
me out. Things have changed a lot since then. I've put up walls and I've locked away
all of my feelings because I've been crippled by the pain of being so alone, and I'm
mistrustful of everyone around me. The people closest to me let me down and left me
to fend for myself. How can I possibly trust
anyone
with my story and my feelings when I know that in the end, they'll just turn their
back on me? They always do.

I make my way down to the first floor of Metro Hospital and out the front doors into
the crisp night air, taking a few deep breaths as I walk to my car in the parking
lot. Every week it's the same thing. I feel panic bubbling up in my throat as I listen
to everyone's discussions, and I nervously tap my foot on the floor, counting down
the minutes on the clock hanging on the wall until it's time to leave.

I still have no idea what forces me to return each week; no clue what possesses me
to get in my car at 7:45pm every Tuesday night and drive the couple of blocks to the
hospital and go up to the fifteenth floor to the meeting room. I'm not getting anything
out of these meetings. I haven't learned how to "let go and let God" or "fake it till
you make it" or any of those other crap slogans they stole from Alcoholics Anonymous.

I have a father who shut himself off from life the day my mother died and chose to
console himself at the bottom of a bottle of vodka on a daily basis. I was dealing
with the loss of my best friend while making sure my father didn't choke on his own
vomit or die from alcohol poisoning. I was a senior in high school with my whole life
ahead of me, and I had to check my father into his first stint in rehab a month after
the funeral, take on the role of administrator for my mother's estate, and learn how
to run a business—all in one day. I was suddenly the parent instead of the child.
Up until that point, I was in the National Honor Society and slated for Valedictorian.
After we buried her, I was lucky I even graduated.

All of the grief and heartache and responsibilities turned me into a person I barely
recognized. One day my mother was here, doling out advice and helping me through life,
and the next day she was gone. No warning, no heads up—just gone. Her life was snuffed
out like the flame on a birthday candle, without the wish. There was only darkness.
The woman who kept our small family together and our lives running smoothly had suddenly
disappeared, and I was left floundering on my own.

I pull out of the busy hospital parking lot, swearing to myself for the hundredth
time that I won't go to next week's meeting. I make my way across town and pull around
back of Snow's Sugary Sweets—my mother's dream and my nightmare all rolled into one.

For years my mother made the desserts for every single wedding, graduation, baby shower,
and family get-together. If she wasn't at work or out shopping, her second favorite
pastime, she was in the kitchen baking. The house always smelled like butter and sugar
and the oven was rarely off. Every time she showed up at an event with a tray full
of goodies, people would tell her that she should just quit her job and open a bakery.

"Deena, these cookies are the best things I've ever eaten. What are they called and
how do I make them?"

My mother let out a small chuckle as my aunt shoveled as many of the light, buttery
confections in her mouth as she could handle.

"Those are called Lady Locks, Katie. They're very hard to make. I could give you the
recipe, but then I'd have to kill you," she replied with a sinister laugh and a wag
of her eyebrows.

"Fine, don't tell me. Just make sure you bring them to Christmas, Easter, my birthday,
the kids' weddings, and any other get-together we have from now until we die. Or just
open your own business already so I can come in every day and eat my weight in these
things," my aunt stated seriously.

"Deal," my mom replied with a wink.

She laughed off the idea for a few years until she got laid off from her accounting
job at a construction company when I was in junior high. With nothing to do day-in
and day-out but wait for my father to wake up after sleeping the day away from working
the night shift or for me to come home from school, she baked and started researching
how to start your own business. Within two years, Snow's Sugary Sweets was up and
running. Since our last name was Snow, it made choosing the name of the store easy.
The hard part was getting my father on board with the plan.

"A bakery? We're opening a bakery?" my father asked in shock as he watched my mom
hustle around the kitchen taking trays out of the oven, flicking switches on the four
mixers she had going, and flipping through multiple recipe books.

"Yes, we're opening a bakery. Don't give me that look. You won't have to do anything
other than tell me how amazing I am and be my taste tester," she reassured him as
he rolled his eyes and heaved out a great big sigh. "Think of it this way. If it does
well, you'll be able to retire early and tell all of those idiots who take advantage
of you at the mill where to stick it. Then we can pay someone else to do all the hard
work, and we can travel like we always planned."

With just a few carefully crafted words from her, my father's fears were instantly
soothed. She knew he was concerned about the amount of time she would spend away from
him and the house. My parents were connected at the hip. Where one would go, the other
would surely follow. They met in high school and were best friends until they both
decided they wanted more. Their marriage was something I always envied: high school
sweethearts who stood the test of time. They were the epitome of soul mates. They
had their share of problems over the years, but when your love was built on friendship,
you could come out stronger on the other side of any disagreement. My father's reaction
to the bakery was the closest thing to an argument I had ever witnessed. He was scared
that if my mother put all of her time and love into this business, there would be
nothing left over for him. If he had learned anything over the years, though, it was
to never argue with my mother. If she wanted something, she got it or she made it
happen. My mother was a genius at making my father feel included and letting him make
important decisions regarding the shop so he wouldn't feel like this was just her
dream coming true, but one they could share together.

Snow's Sugary Sweets quickly became the talk of our small town. It was the only bakery
within a twenty-mile radius, unless you wanted to go to Wal-Mart and choke down one
of their dry cakes with greasy frosting that left a nasty, oily residue in your mouth
after just one bite. It also helped that everyone loved my mother. She was sweet,
friendly, and would do anything to help someone out. She had more friends than I could
ever imagine having, and she was the reason Snow's became such a huge success.