All This Life

“Here’s the twist. Here’s what makes my chowder different from all the other joints.” He takes the bourbon bottle and floats a shot right on top of their soups. He stands there beaming at Kat and says, “Merry Christmas!” He mixes everything up in his bread bowl and digs his spoon in for a hearty mouthful.

“Surprisingly refreshing,” he says, heaping more of it in.

Kathleen sits there watching him and can still hear him saying “Merry Christmas,” though it’s nowhere near December and nowhere near funny and his SPANK ME birthday shirt makes Kat even sadder, and since there’s no official kitchen in the back of the bar, this soup is from a can — she hopes — and it should not be eaten, even with the guarantee that the bread isn’t moldy, and all the elation that she had been feeling curdles. In fact, she despises the Beach Boys and their harmonies and dances in dive bars and morning beers and watching a bartender shovel alcoholic chowder in his face is the worst thing you can ever endure.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, pushing herself up, getting her purse, wobbling toward the black door.

“You shouldn’t leave me alone with your bowl,” he calls over. “I might help myself.”

“Go ahead and help yourself!”

“You first!”

“Help yourself!”

“Hurry!” he says.

Kathleen is outside. The whole world is the color of that chowder; the fog makes everyone on the sidewalk squint from its glare as they beeline to the BART station as they’re starting their dutiful day, while Kat can barely stand up. She can’t believe what she’s done, what she’s thrown away. Everything she’s worked so hard to build is dead. She feels the decapitation of drunkenness.

Her hand is in her purse. Her phone is in her hand. Her phone is powered on and put to her ear.

“I’ve been worried about you,” Deb says.

“I’m drunk,” Kathleen says.

“Ah, girl. Where are you?”

“Can you meet me at my house? I’m on my way there.”

“I’ll leave right now,” Deb says. “Don’t beat yourself up. This happens. I’ve relapsed before. It’s a part of the process. I love you and everything will be fine.”

Kathleen hasn’t paid for her bourbon, but she can’t bear the thought of creaking open the black door, seeing him lap that pallid bowl of chowder.

I’m sorry, she thinks, and turns to walk home.

AS KATHLEEN APPROACHES her place, Deb is on the front stoop. She’s holding two coffees, and those steaming to-go cups make Kat crumble. She drops to the sidewalk and sobs.

“Get up,” says Deb. “You’re all right. You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

“Why did I ruin my life again?” Kathleen asks.

“I’m not going to help you up,” Deb says. “You have to do it. Pick yourself up and come over here. Take this cup of coffee from me.”

“It’s over,” she says, still on her knees. “It’s lost.”

“It’s in my hand,” Deb says. “Your coffee is right here.”

Kathleen looks over at her smiling sponsor. Deb wears a camouflage trench coat, a black beanie. She has on huge combat boots and is the kind of badass Kathleen hopes to be. She remembers when she first came to AA — that first meeting. She was so scared to walk into a roomful of strangers and beg for help. Her life was pickled and she couldn’t go on living like that. She must have stood outside of sixty meetings but could never get up the courage to go in. But eventually, she did. Eventually, she entered that room and sat down in a folding chair that felt made of paperclips and listened, didn’t say one word the whole hour, until the end when the group was asked if anyone had any announcements and Kathleen stood up and said, “This is my first day sober and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, I’m scared, please help,” and that was the beginning — that was the first time she truly understood the definition of the word surrender. She walked in and gave herself up and these people immersed her in their empathy.

Deb had approached her right after the meeting and asked if she needed a sponsor, and they’ve been in daily contact ever since.

And here they are now: Kathleen, decimated, liquored-up, heart-broken, and Deb waiting on her doorstep with hot coffee. The world can be horrible and beautiful at the same time.

“It’s getting cold,” Deb says, shaking the coffee cup.

AFTER HALF AN hour sitting on the stoop, not really talking, the coffee is gone, and it’s time to hit a meeting. Kathleen needs a shower first, a scrub from the toothbrush. Deb says she’ll make some eggs and toast.

Kat opens her front door, and they come into the front hallway. Wes is standing there, in his lab coat.

“Hey,” Kathleen says, “you startled me.”

“It’s time,” he says.

Kat notices his aggressive posture, hands in fists, his on-fire eyes. He sways from side to side.

Something is wrong.

Something is terribly wrong.

She’s never seen a rabid animal but this must be what it looks like when they sic.

“Time for what?” Kat asks.

“We need to go to the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Deb says.