Little by Slowly: a Story of Love and Recovery

been emailing me for months, and, though I was able to ignore her for awhile, she's persistent, and she came to the house and refused to leave until I gave her your number."

  "Sounds like something she would do."

  "I didn't know what else to do. I've known Kelly just about as long as I've known you, and she really seemed desperate."

  "And drunk?"

  "That too," Chris says. "I guess I figured since you were doing so well—"

  "Sure. I just wish you would've warned me."

  "This all just happened last night."

  "Last night?"

  "Well, the emails and phone calls have been coming for months, but it wasn't until yesterday evening that she showed up at the house, and, actually, that's why I came over here. I was going to tell you about it. I guess I didn't think that she would've tried to reach you already."

  "I thought you were coming over to congratulate me on ninety days of sobriety."

  "I did congratulate you, but then I was going to tell you about giving her the number."

  "It's no big deal."

  Chris stands up like he's going to walk away, but then he leans down toward Sam. "What'd she say?"

  "Not much, really. She left a message. I haven't even gotten back to her yet."

  "You should. If not for you, then for her. I think she could use some closure."

  "Yeah, you're probably right. Maybe I'll give her a call later today."

  "Okay, I'll leave you to it then," he says, and starts to move away from his Sam's desk. "Oh, and if you're interested, some of us are going to lunch downstairs today."

  "I'll see."

  Chris co-owns the firm with his wife Tracy, and they've been close friends with Sam since their college days. They were also close to Kelly, and knew her just as long as Sam did. For Sam, calling Chris and Tracy friends is a looser term than it used to be. They used to be very close, housemates and drinking buddies. After college, though, most of Sam's friends got serious about their lives, and their social existences calmed down. Sam and Kelly were the last hangers-on, trying desperately not to get caught growing up, constantly looking for ways to avoid the paperwork of adult life that was lurking around every corner.

  It wasn't until the paperwork came in the form of Kelly's pregnancy that he noticed that nearly five years had past since graduation, and his memories of those five years were awash in a blur of booze. So, after he found out Kelly was pregnant, he decided it was time to stop drinking. It was time to stop chasing something they were never going to catch. But it wasn't as simple as deciding to stop, and things didn't stop quickly enough.

  Still, through recovery, he believes he can make amends, and reach a peaceable moment for all the things he did during his drinking days. But the one thing he knows he will never be able to make amends for is the death of their unborn child. He's got nowhere to go to make amends for the life they squandered with their lush lives, and he's not sure he'll ever be able to fully forgive himself for it. Let alone Kelly.

  At the evening meeting, he had arrived a little earlier than usual, hoping to get a chance to talk with Russell about Kelly's call before the start of the meeting. He stood by the table, the trusty coffee table—the center of the room before and after meetings. He talked briefly with a couple of the regulars: asked Ellen about her grandkids, asked Tom about his talk tonight. And when Russell got free from passing his normal pleasantries around the room, he made his way over to Sam.

  "How's everything?" he asks, filling up his coffee cup.

  "Kelly called me last night."

  "She did?" Russell asks, looking at Sam, breaking his normal grin into something more resembling concern. "What'd she say?"

  "I didn't talk to her. I let her go to voicemail."

  "Are you going to call her back?"

  "Do you think I'm ready?"

  "It's not about what I think."

  "I think I'm ready."

  "But you're not sure?"

  "Not sure I'll ever be sure."

  "What are you worried about?" Russell asks, leaning against the the table beside Sam.

  "I was with her for such a long time. I just don't know what it's going to feel like to see her again. I mean, I was so angry the last time I saw her. But, like you said, I'm calmer now. Maybe, I've forgotten all the bad stuff, and all I'll feel is… Well, maybe, I'll remember that I loved her. Maybe, I'll feel that I want to be with her again. That would be the easy thing to do."

  "Would it?"

  "It feels like it."

  "Have you forgotten all the bad stuff?"

  "No, I guess I haven't."

  "I think you're ready, but you have to make that decision on your own. If I were you, I'd be worried, too. It's a good thing to be worried about how you might feel when you see her again. At least then, when you see her, you won't be blindsided by what you didn't expect. But remember, you've said yourself that you guys were a reckless combination. My guess is, that hasn't changed."

  "…"

  "Do you know if she's still drinking?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure she is."

  "Well, she's the one you've been putting off. You can't move further in the program until you make amends with her."

  "I know."

  "So, you're going to have to talk to her at some point."

  "Any advice?"

  "I can only speak for myself, but I would advise against talking too much over the phone. I'd do it in person and at a neutral place. You should try to anticipate when the best time of the day is to meet her. Try to get her at her most sober."

  "Right."

  "Let me know if you call her. And if you decide that now's the time to meet with her, I'll be available to talk as always."

  "Thanks, Russell."

  "That's what I'm here for," he says and moves toward Tom, who is speaking today.

  Tom is an old-timer, in his sixties, and a veteran of AA. He's been in the program almost ten years. He's a big, shy man, and a man whose face tells a thousand stories—mostly sad ones. Tom is not a happy guy, at least that's the impression he gives off, and, though his rapidly declining health gave him little choice but to quit drinking or die, you get the distinct impression that if he could magically have a healthier liver, he would be back on the bottle, and be happier for it, or at least he would be numb to his personal torments.

  Some alcoholics don't bother denying that they drink to hide. Some of them have no trouble recognizing that they are powerless to drink, and are happy to put their burden in the hands of a higher power. But that doesn't mean they stop wanting to escape some great pain in their lives. Tom has the look of someone who would choose numbness over reality any time. Sam has always gotten the sense from talking with him that there is no happiness there, only a slow moving forward, one day after another. The past, for some, is too heavy a burden to forget without the aid of booze or drugs.

  Sam has kept one eye on the double doors at the top of the stairs since he arrived, but he hasn't seen any sign of Jessi. He knows that the chances that she'll return are remote, but he's had trouble getting her out of his mind. Though he's anxious to see her again, he worries about what an obsession with an attractive woman might mean for his fragile recovery. And the way his thoughts have latched onto her, even after the reappearance of Kelly, makes him worry that he could easily attach himself to her, or attach himself to an idea of her that he could chase. And there's no doubt that he's been hungry for some hope in his life, craving the possibility of some better future to come.

  Sam takes his seat after Russell calls the meeting to order, his regular seat. The old drunk from yesterday's meeting must be sleeping one off somewhere else tonight. This seat gives him a slightly better view of the window. But no one is pacing outside. No Jessi. No one.

  As the group says the Lord's Prayer, the Serenity Prayer, and runs through the steps and the traditions, Sam's mind wanders. He thinks about Kelly and what it might feel like to see her again. He's confident that he will be able to handle her, if only because
his current self is a self far removed from her. There is a wildness that was lost when he lost her. It has not been a wildness that he's missed, but he's worried about how much of that could return merely by being in her proximity.

  Kelly has always had a way of being the center of a party. The party has always seemed to be wherever she happened to be. He's worried that just being near her will reintroduce him to that wildness she represents in him. He's afraid that their old toxic chemistry becomes activated simply by them being together, that their personalities mix in a way that creates something volatile and uncontrollable within each other, and that it'll be hard for him to depress that wild part of himself.

  As Russell begins to introduce Tom, you can feel everyone in the room preparing themselves for the onslaught of gloom that's about to be inflicted upon them.

  But Sam is elsewhere. He's moved on from Kelly. Now, he's allowing himself to fantasize about Jessi again. No matter how ridiculous it might be to fantasize about someone that he's only briefly met, she left such an indelible impression on him. And he can't help but feel sure that he'll see her again.

  And as if his desire had willed it, he sees her legs again. He's sure those legs belong to her. She marches up to the door and turns and marches away. She was there briefly, pushed by bravado, and then she was gone. No pacing this time, but a determination to enter that faded as quickly as it occurred.

  Then, just as Tom begins his long story of recovery, the legs return, and that high-pitched sound of the door opening reverberates through the basement. And that same cool air she brought