Chapter Thirteen

I shuffle my legs in an attempt to get comfortable. Whoever invented plastics chairs is a dickhead. Perhaps it’s not even the chairs, more the fact that I’m sitting in a circle surrounded by complete strangers who, just like me, are sitting on these shitty plastic chairs. On one side of me is my baggage, and on the other, my demons. Is there a savior in the room? That’s why we all sit here praying that someone will save us from our inevitable death.

The support meeting is located in a quiet hall behind one of our local churches. I think fate stepped in when I stumbled upon the small ad in the newspaper. I didn’t want some big-shot rehab facility. Call me naïve, but I’m not that fucked-up.

An older lady with gray-streaked hair sits down and smiles at each of us. She looks at peace, and there’s a calm aura surrounding her. I don’t want to stare at anyone, but curiosity gets the better of me. We’re all puppets in this freak show. Maybe I’m not so screwed-up, or worse yet, maybe I’m the most insane person sitting in this room. Something tells me the tranny sitting across from me has bigger issues.

The lady clears her throat, and on closer inspection, she has a Bible in her hand.

“Good afternoon, friends.” Her voice is soothing. She reminds me a lot of my grandmother. “My name is Hazel, and I’d like to welcome our new friend.”

There are a few smiling faces in the group, and then there are those staring blankly into space.

“I’d like to tell you about myself and why I am here today.” She takes a deep breath. I sense I’m not going to like what she’s going to say. “Twenty years ago, in front of this building, I lost my husband and son.”

An eerie silence falls over the room. The tranny is clutching a handkerchief, dabbing each eye, careful not to smear the excessive amount of blue eye shadow smeared across his eyelids.

“We had just finished Sunday morning mass and were walking out of the church to our car. My son stopped to tie his shoe, and my husband waited for him. I was only a few feet ahead when I heard the loud bang. The next minute, I see my husband and son lying on the ground.” Hazel traces her fingers along the engraved crucifix that sits on the cover of the Bible. “It was a boy who took my family away from me. He was only thirteen years old, bullied into a gang, and he did what he needed to do to survive on the streets. I have spent so many years asking why I was punished, why would God take away my family? The pain comes in waves, but somehow I have to find purpose in why I was spared.”

My heart is breaking for her. To have your husband and son shot in front of you is unthinkable.

“I’m not here to preach the Lord, despite that I carry this around.” She lifts the Bible, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “This is my way of finding peace. Everyone is different, and that’s the first step to healing.”

A man sitting beside her is rocking back and forth. He scratches himself, annoyed, and Hazel recognizes his impatience. His hair is ginger-colored and covers his face, so his eyes are barely seen. He’s wearing brown baggy jeans and a dull green T-shirt. It’s an inappropriate moment to be thinking that he looks like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, but he sure does.

“I still haven’t found it, Hazel,” he complains.

Hazel smiles at the man. I suspect this isn’t the first time she’s heard this.

“Jerry,” she softly scolds. “You have found that first step, you just need to accept it.”

He continues to be irritated, scratching like a madman. Something about his scratching is contagious. Soon I find myself scratching my arms like I have chickenpox.

“I need to get the hell out of here,” he huffs.

Hazel walks over and places her hand around Jerry’s shoulder. At first, he flinches, then his body visibly relaxes.

What the fuck was that about?

A slight creak of the door interrupts whatever the hell just happened with Jerry. A woman sneaks in and sits at a chair near the exit. We all turn to her direction, though with her head bowed down and face covered by a hood, we can’t see her face. Hazel looks pleased, although the woman does not look up.

I can’t help but watch her. It’s boiling hot outside and, in this room, so why is she wearing a hoody? A part of me is hoping she’ll look my way, but nothing. I give up and focus my attention on Hazel and the rest of the group.

An older man, perhaps late sixties, pipes up, “My name is Fred.”

“Hi, Fred,” everyone greets in unison.

“It was 1992, the Barcelona Olympics. We were celebrating the US winning gold, and a bunch of us holiday folk were crossing a busy street to get to the local bar. As we crossed the road, this taxi comes out of nowhere, and I watch it, frozen in the middle of the road. My friend pushes me out of the way, saving me from my death.” Fred falls into a digestive silence, his story appearing to be more tragic than his near brush with death. “I have agyrophobia, the fear of crossing roads,” he admits.

“At first, it wasn’t a huge deal, but as time went on, I struggled to go to work, out for groceries, or even just visit my neighbor across the street. My wife ended up leaving me and took my daughter with her. She’d had enough of my paranoia.” The sad tone in his voice only mildly projects the turmoil he’s facing and the bitter disappointment in himself for losing his family—the poor man.

“Fred, last week you told us about your journey to the local store by foot,” Hazel says encouragingly.

Fred stares at the floor, nervously clicking his scuffed brown boots together. “Yeah, I walked, but I stood watching the store from across the street for an hour.”

So many questions run through my mind. How on earth does he get anywhere? Is it even possible not to cross a road? My fear of coyotes seems so insignificant right now.

“I know what you new folk must be thinking… how do I get anywhere? Well, I drive. If I have to go to the post office across the road, I get in my car and drive.”

Jerry mumbles something under his breath starting a heated debate with Fred.

Not paying attention to either of them, I find myself drawn to the mystery girl who continues to sit in silence near the door. From what I can see of her face, she is quite pale. Her cheekbones are prominent and not in a healthy way. Although she’s wearing loose articles of clothing, her frame appears to be emaciated. I don’t want to stare, but there’s something about her that intrigues me.

“Honestly, you two fight like cats and dogs. Grow some balls and shut up already.” The tranny has had enough of their bickering. He, she, hell I don’t know, is wearing a low-cut dress with a visible bust. My instincts would say ‘he’ due to his Adam’s apple that’s practically jumping out at me.

Stop fucking staring.

“Like you’re one to talk, Penny,” Jerry mocks. “If I need balls, I’m sure you’ve still got a pair tucked into your panties.”

“Jerry, Penny,” Hazel softly calls their names and, like magic, they shut up, although still angry from their argument. I suspect Hazel is the mother hen to everyone in this room. They seem to respect her, and the calming influence she has over them is likely the exact reason they come back every week. “I always like to give individuals a task to take home with them, a step to healing. I want you to focus on one thing that made you smile this week. It could be a delicious ice cream you ate or maybe someone you saw. Something or someone who makes you happy, even for just a moment.” Hazel smiles hopefully at each of us.

“Does having sex with a cab driver count?” Penny sighs dreamily.

“What is it with you and sex? I swear, Penny, sometimes you’re such a wh—” Jerry is interrupted by a furious Penny.

“A what, Jerry? A whore? Just because I like sex doesn’t make me a whore!”

Whoa! We have entered some awkward territory now.

“Stop being such a jerk in front of our new member, Jerry.” Penny looks directly at me and shoots me a wink. Jerry rolls his eyes.

“Thank you… Penny?” I ask politely.

“Yes, Penny… Penny Tration.” She bats her eyelashes at me this time.

I shake my head unable to hide my smile, and obviously, I’m not the only one as Fred is bowing his head with a smirk on his face.

“Nice to meet you, Penny Tration.” I hold in my laughter as best as I can. “My name is Julian… Julian Baker.”

The sound of a chair screeching along the wooden floor echoes through the room. My head turns to the noise coming from the hooded girl. She lifts her head slightly, and I’m eager to see her face. Only her lips are visible, a pale pink with the right corner raw from where she’s been chewing, most likely due to the anxiety of this meeting.

What the fuck is it about her?

Whatever it is needs to stop right here, right now. I came here to heal and find peace, not to hook up and sleep with someone in the group. Next time I sit in this chair, I’m almost certain it will be my turn to open the vault of my past and lay it bare for everyone to see.

It terrifies me to the core.

As if Hazel can sense my trepidation, she casually walks over and places her palm over mine. “Don’t be afraid. It’ll happen when you’re ready.”

“I think I’m ready, I just… I don’t know,” I blurt out.

“Julian, dear boy, you’ll know when you’re ready to speak. Your heart and mind will be in sync. Don’t force yourself.”

My heart and mind need to be in sync.

Repeat, my heart and mind need to be in sync.