CHAPTER 7
The First Honest Hour
GARY
The 7:30 meeting is in a conference room on deck four. Five people and a Big Book somebody left on a chair.
“Hello. I’m Gary. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Gary.”
“I’m nervous to be here. My last two cruises did not end well. Five years ago I took a cruise, met someone, got scared, and ran. Two years ago I took another one, drowned the guilt, and did a number of things I’m still cleaning up after. So I’m here to prove to myself I can manage my feelings and stay sober at the same time. These ships are beautiful and they’re dangerous for people like us. The alcohol isn’t the hard part. The traps that lead to it are.”
An older man in a windbreaker doesn’t let me sit down.
“You haven’t said what scared you.”
“I did. The situation was—“
“You said the situation. I asked what scared you.”
I open my mouth with something ready, and I hear it before it arrives — not an answer. A paragraph. I know the difference. Eleven years in the rooms and I can talk about my feelings beautifully for forty-five minutes without going within a mile of one.
“I don’t have that yet,” I say instead, and sit down, and my face is hot.
“My name is Cathy, and I’m an alcoholic. I agree with Ted. When I start hiding things, I start drinking. That includes faking my feelings. Telling people everything’s fine when it isn’t.”
I kept telling myself I ghosted her because I respected her. That was a lie. I ghosted her because I couldn’t admit what I felt — and couldn’t survive finding out she didn’t feel it back.
“My name’s Scott, I’m an alcoholic. Nothing makes me want a drink like guilt over a relationship I wrecked. And if the guilt came from dishonesty — which for me it always did — then honesty is the only thing that gets me away from the bottle. Honesty with other people. Honesty with myself first.”
There it is.
“My name’s Joe, I’m an alcoholic. I have to remind myself nearly every day of the first two words of step one. We admitted.”
Afterward Ted catches me at the coffee urn.
“Don’t take it hard. You talk like a man who’s been around a while.”
“Eleven years. On and off.”
“Mm.” He stirs his coffee for longer than it needs. “That’s the trouble with the ones who’ve been around. You get good at it.” He looks up. “Good enough to fool the room. Good enough to fool your sponsor, some days.”
“And myself.”
“Especially yourself. That’s the whole trick.” He sets the stirrer down. “Whoever it is you got up early to think about — she’s going to ask you something today you don’t want to answer. And you’ll have something very reasonable ready before she finishes the sentence.”
“And?”
“And you’ll know it when you feel it. It feels like relief.” He picks up his cup. “See you tomorrow.”
#
GARY
I arrive early. She arrives and does not say a word — just nods.
I ask the hostess for a table by the window. The sunlight is throwing every color the ocean has onto the glass. We both look out at it because it’s easier than looking at each other.
“I want to explain. I want to answer any question you have.”
She picks up her napkin and looks at the floor.
The waiter hands us menus. We order sandwiches without reading them.
“Dee, you’ve only gotten more beautiful—“
She fires. “What the hell happened? What did I do that made you disappear? For five years I have wondered what I did wrong.”
“Nothing. You didn’t do anything. It was never about you, it was a difficult period in my life and I wasn’t in a place to—“
And I hear it. The sentence arriving smooth and pre-assembled, three words ahead of my mouth.
It feels like relief.
I stop in the middle of the word. She looks up.
“I’m sorry. Let me start that again.” I put both hands flat on the table. “I was about to give you a very good answer that wasn’t true. Here’s the true one: you didn’t do anything, and there is no explanation that makes what I did all right.”
A waiter two tables over drops a tray. The whole dining room goes silent for a beat and then resumes.
“Dee. You deserve the whole truth.”
The waiter appears at my elbow to ask about food allergies. I would very much like a drink. I notice the thought, and I let it go by.
“I hurt you because I was afraid. That wasn’t your fault. I don’t expect forgiveness. I do owe you the truth.”
She says nothing.
“I talked to my sponsor last night. He said: Don’t try to convince her. Keep your side of the street clean, tell the truth, and let time do the talking.”
Still nothing. She’s going to make me do this without help, which is exactly right.
“I don’t know if I deserve your forgiveness. I doubt you believe me. But I’ve changed.”
I glance around. Lunch service is nearly over; five people left in the room and a waiter already eyeing our table.
“They’re going to throw us out. Walk with me. If and when you’re ready, I’ll tell you what happened.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Long enough that I count my own heartbeats.
“You have one hour,” she says. “And Gary — the clock started when you sat down.”
ACT II
THE TRUTH