Page 103 of Teacher of the Year

Kay leads everyone in the Serenity Prayer, and I listen and concentrate on the words. It’s one of those prayers I’ve heard many times, but if someone asked me to recite it from memory, I couldn’t. Accept the things we cannot change. Have the courage to change what we can. The wisdom to know the difference.

My mind drifts to my mother. Our small apartment. I can’t change my childhood. Neither can she. But she’s sober now. And Lord knows, she’s trying with me. Olan can’t change his past, but we bothcanchange how it impacts us. Olan’s already begun his work, and now I have the opportunity to release the weight of the past. Not to forget, but to forgive my mother and live my life.

“We’re now going to start with anniversaries. First up, one-year anniversaries,” Kay announces.

Okay, here we go. The reason I’m here. There are so many people in the room. Maybe Olan’s sitting near the front, and I simply can’t spot him in the crowd. I crane my neck and dart my eyes around in every direction, searching for his handsome face.

A woman stands up. White and probably in her forties, she smiles at Kay and envelops her in an embrace. Her feathered taupe hair falls just past her shoulders. Something about her face emotes such sincerity, I’m drawn to listen.

“Hello, my name is Linda, and I’m an alcoholic.”

The entire room calls back, “Hi, Linda.”

“Thank you. Today, I stand here, one year sober, and what a journey it’s been. If someone told me a year ago that I’d be standing here, in front of you all, sober, I would have laughed in their face and shouted, pour me another glass of wine.”

The room laughs, and I check my watch. Ten minutes and I need to bolt, and still no sign of Olan. My hand twitches with the temptation to text him, but I’m determined to be a surprise. Grand gesture and all that jazz.

“For the longest time, I used booze to avoid my problems. It started with a glass here and there to take the edge off my day, help me relax, and get a good night’s sleep. But soon, one wasn’t enough. Two wasn’t enough. I started stockpiling wine. Cheap bottles. Boxes. I wasn’t picky. Joking helped. I called it my ‘mommy juice.’ Well, I understand now how completely stupid that was. And while the shame began to creep in, I got to the point where it didn’t matter. Looking back, there were issues I was ignoring. Big issues.”

The room gives a collective sound of agreement, encouraging Linda to continue.

“Growing up, I’d always wanted a family. A few years after college, I met my husband, and when we finally married, I thought, this is it. Now I’ll have a family and the perfect life I’ve dreamed about. But we struggled to have children. The whole process was taxing, financially and emotionally. After years of treatment and trying, we finally got pregnant. And when my beautiful daughter was born, the gift I’d been hoping for, trying for, I thought, okay, now, now everything will fall into place. But it didn’t. I had horrible postpartum, not helped by a fussy baby. I felt like a complete failure and discovered the wine helped. Going back to work after maternity leave, the wine helped. Arguing with my husband over something stupid? The wine helped. It helped with everything. Or so I thought. But really, it simply masked what I wasn’t dealing with.”

Linda’s words resonate with me. My mother. Olan. Myself. I may not have a drinking problem, but yowzers, I’ve been doing my best to ignore my demons. Enough of that nonsense. It’s not productive. It’s literally holding me back. I steal a glance at my watch and realize I need to get moving, and still no Olan. As I look back up at Linda, my phone vibrates in my pocket. My heart leaps into my throat.

Jill: Get your butt here. The doctor is chomping at the bit.

Marvin: On my way.

I stand to leave, and Linda pauses and stares at me.

“I’m sorry, I have to go… to the bathroom. You’re doing great, though. Amazing speech.”

I pump my fist in the air to cheer her on, and because I’m thinking about grabbing Oreos and not watching where I’m going, I trip over a chair, falling into a burly man who does his best to catch me.

“Slow down there, buddy.”

“Sorry, I have to go.”

Fumbling to my feet, I move as fast as my legs will carry me outside and dash to my car. It’s seven twenty-five, and the ceremony starts soon. It’s a five-minute drive if that. There shouldn’t be much traffic on a Thursday evening. I’ve got this. I’m tempted to text Olan. He wouldn’t miss his anniversary meeting unless something happened. Where the heck is he? Dr. Knorse’s terse face flashes in my head, and I slam myself into my car, immediately jamming my key into the ignition and turning it, but nothing happens. I try again. One final attempt and the gas light flashes red. My heart falls through my bootyhole. I’m out of fucking gas.

Chapter34

Jill: Where the hell are you?

Marvin: My car is out of gas FFS. I’ll walk.

Jill: I’ll sneak out and come get you.

Marvin: No, it’s only a mile. I can walk.

Jill: No fool. RUN.

And somehow, on a warmer than typical May evening, I find myself jogging to the Teacher of the Year ceremony. Kristi would be so pleased right now. Except, I’m not dressed for it. To be fair, I don’t really own any clothes for running. No, instead, I’m dressed up to potentially accept a distinguished award. I kind of hope I don’t win the damn thing because, by the time I arrive, I’m going to be a complete sopping mess.

Because, apparently, in addition to the rest of my horrible life choices, I’m completely out of shape, I vacillate between actual running, jogging, walking fast, and something in between I’ll call wogging. One mile can’t take that long, even for a shlub like me. Every damn traffic signal turns to Don’t Walk as I approach, and I wonder if someone put a Kinahora on me. I find myself playing chicken, running across intersections, attempting to make it to the hotel as quickly as possible without being turned into roadkill, Frogger style.

Only two blocks away, a woman in a maroon mom-van careens around the corner, slamming on her brakes, barely avoiding flattening me into a latke.

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