The Grace Shawl

One

She stares longingly at the large plantation-style ranch set up on a hill. This setting always quiets her mind. The scene unfolding always fills her with hope. This dream always calms her soul.

The lush green grass goes on for miles and is speckled with purple, yellow, and white wildflowers. Further behind the estate, picturesque fields are dotted with cattle and she can hear the occasional bellowing mixed with the steady hum of nature. A stream babbles around the property, creating a lulling soundtrack to the already tranquil atmosphere.

The sun warms her skin and the air is light with hints of pine and pollen. She breathes in the aroma of freshly cut grass. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the large oak trees lining the long, winding, gravel driveway leading up to the house that she admires from afar. The tulips and roses planted along the front porch sway, bringing the scenic canvas to life.

It’s perfect.

She watches as a young man makes his way to the house. His cheeks are gaunt. His demeanor is spastic and his eyes dart around anxiously. His shaky hands and needle-mark covered arms are tell-tale signs that he is an addict.

The straggler is fumbling and falling but slowly dragging himself to the wrap-around front porch of the sprawling ranch. The pockmark riddled, skinny young man collapses at the bottom of the steps. His anxious, fidgeting presence is a stark contrast to the peace and serenity of the environment surrounding him.

She looks at the top step.

He is there. Like always.

He is there. Waiting.

He reaches down and the young man is lifted up to Him by some invisible power.

She has stood here many times. She’s watched this interaction over and over as people come to the ranch from all walks of life and in all different ways but with always the same outcome.

He is waiting. He reaches out for them. No matter how dirty, how shattered, how wrecked they appear, He always reaches for them. Always.

He greets them. He embraces them. Then He sits with them on the porch swing where He hands them a folded piece of fabric. They always take it, then they hold the fabric out and let it fall, revealing the length. After pausing a moment to admire it, they slide it over their shoulders and they are immediately transformed.

No matter how bruised and broken they were when they arrived, when they cover themselves with the fabric they are instantly made into a new version of themselves. A better version. The best version.

She has witnessed this transaction many times. The made-news, radiant in their fabric and glowing with joy, stand from the swing. He opens the ornate front door and, even from this distance, she hears the music playing from inside. Laughter fills the air. The atmosphere is joyous. She feels an intoxicating warmth radiating from the home.

Now, like all the others before him, the made-new young man is standing straight and smiling as he calmly enters the house.

He is still on the porch. He turns in her direction, nods, and stretches out His hand.

Her heart races.

She considers it. She considers running to Him. Embracing Him.

Everything about the Ranch is inviting, especially Him. He has a gentle disposition that she can sense from all the way back here. She can see the kindness in his eyes and the way He moves cautiously with the befores, the messes, the people who grovel to the porch before they're made-new. He’s accessible but not forceful.

Every time she’s here she imagines what that would be like. What it would be like to go to Him, to receive the fabric, to enter the ranch…

She knows it will change her life. She knows she needs Him. She knows He will help her. She can feel the ranch pulling her. She can hear His voice calling her to come to Him.

But she can’t. Not yet. Like all the times before, she turns away and begins to walk home, alone.

Two

I’m startled awake by the shrieking of the alarm clock, the kink in my neck, and the toddler screaming from a neighboring apartment. My mind is racing as I break into consciousness. My heart is thudding loudly in my ears. All the peace and serenity from the ranch dream vanish as soon as I open my eyes. My body feels electric and antsy, like I need to move. I am accustomed to this busyness in my bones, this is my normal state of anxiety.

My eyes scan the dark studio apartment. It’s the polar opposite of the lavish ranch I visit in my dreams. The kitchen-dining-bedroom-in-one is a five hundred square foot room that is cramped but clean-ish.

When I have my act together and keep it tidy, this place is home. When I lose control and let it go, it’s one step up from being homeless. Which, before I moved in three years ago, was the case. This small, cramped, box marks progress.

The air is stale and the walls are lined with yellowing, peeling paper. This apartment complex is supposed to be non-smoking. (Well, ‘complex’ is a bit of a stretch. It’s a house that’s been converted to six small apartments. My ‘apartment’ is half of the top floor, which used to be the attic. The layout is wonky, the ceilings are steep and the floor slopes a bit, but the price is right.) Anyway, it’s supposed to be non-smoking but none of the renters abide by that rule and the landlord (an old, cranky, obese man who lives next door) could not care less. As long as rent is paid on-time he leaves us alone... and even when rent is late, he sends his kid brother as a lacky to collect. I’ve dealt with him more than once.

I roll over, noticing a new crack in the ceiling, and light a cigarette, noticing a few new scratches on my wrist. Dang it. I know those are from trying to fall asleep last night, I just don’t remember inflicting them. I thought I was past the point of needing pain to lull myself to sleep. Apparently not.

I inhale a long drag from the Menthol Light, hold the air in my lungs for a second, then exhale slowly and watch the smoke billow out as I reach for the remote to turn on the old tube style television. It doesn’t matter what channel, I just want noise. Any noise. A distraction. I need to keep my mind busy. I don’t trust myself to be alone with my thoughts, ever.

In the stillness, my demons rage. If I stay in a constant state of motion then I can cover up the accusations.

I take another drag, picture the smoke swirling around in my lungs and covering up any lingering feelings as I think about the reoccurring dream. I have a few different versions that cycle through my subconscious, a greatest hits of nightmares and regrets. They all play out like a movie I’m watching but also starring in. I’ve lived them and now I’m forced to watch them as an informed but regretful spectator. The ranch scene is, by far, the most pleasant to experience, but the dreams all leave me feeling agitated when I wake up, for various reasons.

My stomach grumbles, a subtle encouragement to get my day started. I snub out the butt on the pop-can-turned-ashtray next to my bed and push aside the tattered, wool blanket that serves as a sad excuse of a comforter. It scratches my legs as I swing them over the side and stand to stretch. I raise up on my tip-toes, clasp my hands and raise them above my head. I lower my neck and close my eyes so I won’t have to look at what’s left of my body.

My tank top and panties hang off my thin frame and my hip bone protrudes much further than it should, even a little further than it did yesterday. My arms and legs are littered with embarrassing self-inflicted scrapes and bruises. External evidence of the internal war. Physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil. Ah, addiction. Oh, self-loathing. My closest friends.

My apartment is undeniably cramped, but a saving grace is that the bathroom (though smaller than a closet) has a pocket door which maximizes space by magically disappearing into the wall when not in use and also offers some semblance of privacy when needed.

I walk the few feet from my ‘bedroom’ to the bathroom, slide in sideways, and turn on the shower.

I close my eyes, avoiding my reflection as I brush my teeth and wait for the shower to heat from freezing to lukewarm. It’s a good day if the water temp gets hot enough to produce steam. It’s not looking like today is gonna be a good day.

I test it with my hand and, even though it’s still cold enough to send goosebumps up and down my whole body, I step in and begin to wash my long, stick-straight, brown hair. The shampoo stings my nails that are bitten down to the quick and slightly burns the cuts on my arms but I don’t mind. Pain and uncomfortable sensations serve as dual-purpose reminders and distractions.

Rarely do I have a restful night of sleep. Well, that’s not true. Never. Never do I have a restful night. If it’s not the ranch dream then my subconscious cycles through the gut-wrenching memories. Or possibly the worst of the night-time cinemas, the actual dreams. The what-if’s…

The ranch dreams are deceitful because they lull me into a false serenity and it’s a shock when I wake to this mess I call a life. At least during the nightmares I experience the same angst in my sleep as I do when I wake up. The ranch teases my subconscious with the allure of an unattainable calm that vanishes as soon as day breaks.

I turn off the water and step out to dry off with the single threadbare towel draped over the shower bar. I wrap it around my chest and it barely covers my bottom as I walk across the room to the dresser I rescued from a curb down the street. Thanks to a little soap and a few weeks of airing out you can barely tell that a family of mice inhabited it.

I replace the towel with a worn sports bra and thin panties before pulling on the ever-so-chic, gray housekeeping uniform. Complete with a plastic nametag that reads ‘Anna’.

Another day another dollar.

I brush my teeth again (trying to get rid of the nicotine fuzz), grab my cloth purse, keys, and cigarettes and I’m ready to tackle, what’s sure to be, another phenomenal day.

Stepping out into the hall, locking the door behind me, I hear a commotion from next door. I drop my keys in my bag and hurry down the steps, rushing to avoid whatever might be going on. Unfortunately, scuffles of all shapes and sizes are not uncommon here.

I step out of the only entrance onto a narrow front porch and blink as my eyes adjust from the dimly lit building to the daylight. It’s barely seven a.m. but the summer sun is already rising and warming the day.

I turn and begin the one mile walk to an upscale hotel where I get to spend the next eight hours scrubbing toilets.

Three

Before I even cross the first street, I reach in my purse to grab a cigarette. I’m not craving one but I need something to do with my hands. I need a distraction.

My life isn’t bad, all things considered. It’s definitely better than it used to be and I’m working every single day to continue to improve it. Each day that passes is a victory.

I’m making the most of the hand I was dealt. Well, that’s not exactly true. This isn’t the hand I was dealt. This is the hand I traded for during some sort of cosmic poker game of five-card stud. I was dealt three aces but I exchanged them for a 2, 4, and 6 unsuited. Are those even the worst cards? I can’t remember.

It’s hard to say where the domino effect of my destruction started. Was it joining ‘the team’? Was it the fight with Cody? Was it going to that doctor? It doesn’t really matter. The important thing is that I’m on the upswing and I’m working hard to make it right. Again.

I stop at a red light and count the seconds until the signal changes from a red hand to a light-up man. That’s my cue. As I cross the street I count down with the numbers on the crosswalk sign.

The one mile walk in the mornings should be a time of quiet reflection, instead it’s a torturous game of beat-the-clock, where the objective is to not stop long enough to think. Counting steps, smoking, avoiding sidewalk lines. Distract, distract, distract.

Once safely on the other side, my eyes trail along the bottom of the building and I draw an invisible line, following the mortar.

My hands twitch and I press my pointer fingernail between my front teeth until a sliver of nail shreds off, exposing raw skin. Then I press the bare flesh as hard as I can to the underside of my thumb. Pain.

Counting.

Distracting.

Anything to not think about pills.

Pills. The word seems so harmless. Like taking Tylenol for a headache or a Valium to calm down.

Pills sounds simple.

Pills sounds helpful.

I wish prescription painkillers had a name more suited to the havoc they cause.

Meth, heroin, cocaine, those all have negative connotations… but pills, well they almost sound insignificant. Even the term ‘opioids’ sounds sophisticated.

Maybe, maybe if hydrocodone had been called life-altering-highly-addictive-tablets-of-heroin I woulda been more cautious.

Taking death-capsules is hard to justify.

Pills, on the other hand, I’ve always been able to rationalize.

After all, they’re just pills.

I know they’re dangerous. I know they are bad for me. I know they alter my state of mind. The irony is; I feel like a better person when I’m taking them. Definitely better than this weak-minded drone I am when I’m avoiding them. When thinking about not thinking about them rules my life…

Counting steps and inflicting pain, what a way to live.

It’d be so much easier to just give in. Just take a few. Just to take the edge off. But I can’t. I can’t become that person again. I can’t.

I started taking pills to take away the pain. But after the pain went away, the pills charged me. Energized me. They made me feel invincible.

Until they ruined me.

Four

The same trio of alarm clocks (crying kid, kinked neck, and my actual alarm) wake me up the next morning.

No ranch dream last night but my heart literally aches for the calmness I experience there, even if it is only for a few minutes in my subconscious. My body is tired. I’m exhausted.

I roll over and light a cigarette.

A new day. But somehow the same day. Over and over. Ashy taste in my mouth, pounding in my head, and dried blood on the sheets.

Is this as good as it gets?

Six months sober but still consumed by pills, still trying to get better. I feel like I’m clawing my way out of quicksand. Putting in so much effort only to slide further down. I’m a shell of who I once was.

Have my choices killed the old Anna? Is it even possible to get her back? Maybe.

Maybe if I saw Cody. Maybe being around him would help resurface the old me.

One year. If I can make it one year sober then I’ll call him, that’s the deal. That’s the deal I made with myself. That’s my motivation for holding out hope.

At this point it’s hard to tell if I miss him or the idea of him. In my memory he is perfect, we were perfect. Am I idolizing what we had? Is he just another distraction? Something to obsess over besides the pills and the accident.

I bring the cigarette to my lips and watch in the mirror as my cheeks suck in as I inhale a deep drag. My brow furrows. This yo-yoing is exhausting. The back and forth of ‘good-and-getting-better’ with the ‘this-is-as-good-as-it-gets-so-I-might-as-well-give-up’.

It’s easy for me to slip into the darkness and wallow in the misery. But if I take a second, think about where I really was six months ago verses where I am today, I am so much better. So much happier. At least now I have glimpses of hope and joy.

No. No way I’m going down that road again. As much as this sucks, as hard as this is, it’s better, I’m better.

I break my stare and snub out the cigarette.

Enough.

Move forward.

Off to work. I rush through my morning routine and practically run to the hotel, excited for the expected chatter from Katie.

She is waiting for me on the curb outside the hotel, eating a fast food breakfast sandwich. She pops the last of the biscuit in her mouth and smiles at me as she wipes her hands on her uniform.

Right on time! She announces. I look at my phone, I’m fifteen minutes early. I chuckle remembering part of her monologue from yesterday.

We walk through the automatic doors and Geoff is behind the counter, staring intently at the computer. He glances up and his whole face breaks into a grin. Top of the mornin to ya ladies. It’s a terrible accent, he sounds like a leprechaun, but he keeps it up. May I interest you in some Irish coffee?

Katie takes the bait. What makes it Irish?

Geoff puts a hand on his chest and his eyes get wide. Well, the company, obviously, and… the whiskey. He winks. She giggles. I take one of the cups he has prepared on the counter and walk back to Jeannette’s office, by-passing the breakfast pantry.

Jeanette is seated behind her desk, just like yesterday. And, just like yesterday, she doesn’t look up as she slides the sheet across