Living On The Edge

The sound of the alarm buzzer shot through my ears and reverberated through my cranium, coming to to rest at my frontal lobe. I opened one eye and tried to focus on the clock. “Second hangover this week and it’s only Wednesday.” I moaned.

I called work and left a message on my secretary’s voicemail. “I’ll be in a little later, I’m not well. Tell whomever needs to know.” I dragged my leaden legs into an icy cold shower, hoping the water would wash away the cloudy memories of another lonely drinking binge.
As I stood under the frosty spray, I leaned against the cold tile for support while an unwelcome foreboding crept into my being. These bouts were becoming more regular. It wasn’t a problem, though. That would be an admission of weakness. Besides, I liked to drink. It took the edge off. Life as a criminal lawyer was no sunday drive. Drinking made me bitchy enough to handle my cases without emotion. Tough, cold, steely.

Drinking didn’t affect my work, I decided and it was an excellent substitute for a husband. Lawyer was a solo game. No time for men or love. No time for emotion.

As I strode into the office I asked my secretary, “Could you bring me some coffee, please, Susan?”

Susan brought in a pot of steaming brew. “Ms. Leonard, Mr. Jones and Mr. Begin want to see you in the small meeting room.”
I nodded, wondering what the two seniors wanted with me first thing. Except it wasn’t first thing. It was already eleven AM.

“Oh, cripe.” I suddenly remembered I had court that morning.

“Good morning.” I greeted as I closed the door behind me. “I just remembered I had court this morning. I was so ill when I woke up, I forgot all about it. Certainly someone was able to cover for me.”

“Yes, Claris, we sent Johnson over.” Mr. Jones offered, looking at his hands.

I wondered why the two men seemed so shifty, and uncomfortable. I suddenly wished I had taken another aspirin before coming to this meeting. It felt like someone was playing a bongo drum behind my eyes. The room seemed unbearably warm and perspiration was breaking out on my forehead.

“We want to discuss something with you, Claris.” Mr. Begin, the elder partner explained. “We, er, the firm wants to assist you with your drinking problem.”

My face burned, as if I'd been slapped. “My drinking problem?” I parroted, flailingmy arms in emphasis. “I don’t have a drinking problem.”

“Claris, you smell like a brewery half the time. Your clients notice.” Jones insisted.

“Claris,” Mr. Begin began, gently, “You must understand. We insist you get help.”

I understood all too well, “You want me to go to a dry out clinic?”

“Sorry, Claris, but we have no choice, neither do you. You have a great career ahead of you, but you need to deal with this problem.”

“Fine.” I got up, seething, humiliated and anxious to get out of the room before the walls closed in. “But I don’t have a problem.”

“Mrs. Snider in HR has the details.” Mr. Begin advised, “No one knows about this. Word is you are on a well-deserved vacation. Johnson will take good care of your clients. He’s already gone through most of your case load”

“This isn’t happening.” I told my image. I was staring at myself in the executive washroom mirror, dark green eyes peering back. Wavy shoulder length black hair, porcelain skin - too young to show signs of age, slim figure on a 5’10” frame. Not bad looking. Hell, I couldn’t see a drunk in that reflection. What did they think they were doing? Who the hell did they thing they were, my parents? “That slimy little Johnson better keep his shyster paws off my clients.” I warned, fists clenched in anger.

Mrs. Snider, the Vice President of Human Resources, a hawkish little woman of about fifty-five, “You don’t need any clothes. In fact, it’s better to have as few possessions as possible for the first couple of weeks.”

“First couple of weeks?” I echoed, then demanded, “How long does this prison sentence last?”
“About a month.” Mrs. Snider answered, calmly. “The escort will be here soon.”

“A month! Escort?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Don’t you mean prison guard?” I bellowed sarcastically. I reached into my handbag for the bottle of aspirin.

Mrs. Snider was quick for an old bird. Grabbing the bottle out of my hand she quickly explained, “You can’t take these, no pills of any kind, except prescription medication.”

“Great.” I snarled.

We drove in silence for what seemed hours before finally pulling up at a classy hotel-like structure. It looked more like a spa than a dry out clinic. “Is this it?” I asked irritably.

“Yes, ma’am.” He answered politely, coming around to open my door for me.

I checked in, disgusted at the cheerfulness of the admitting clerk. I was taken to my room by a bellhop, or at least that’s what they called him. It was lavish, but no mini bar, of course. I was pondering my escape plan when there was a knock at the door.

I turned the door handle and discovered to my horror that it was locked. A key opened it from the other side.

“I’m a bloody prisoner!” I shrieked as the handsome young doctor entered the room. I knew he was a doctor by his name tag, Dr. Thomas.

“No.” He assured me, then explained, “I just wanted to have a quick chat with you before we get started tomorrow.”

We sat down on the sofa. He didn’t speak. I guess he was waiting for me. I had no intention of making it easy for him. “Well?” I finally caved.

“If you don’t want to talk, we don’t have to, we can just sit here.” He answered calmly, with a smile. “It’s up to you.”

“I guess if I want to get sprung from this joint, I better confess, is that it?”

“Hmmm…No.” he smiled again. “I know you’re a lawyer. We get quite a few. Not so many women, though.”

“Well, I don’t want to be here. I don’t think I have a problem.”

“Maybe you do and maybe you don’t. We’ll find out in time.” He rose and made motion to leave.

“Rushing home to the missus?” I didn’t want him to go, and to my horror I hoped he wasn’t married.

“I’m not married.” He offered an engaging smile as he opened the door to leave. “And neither are you.”

"First rule, doc, is don't get involved, don't you know that?" There was no response. I was alone with my thoughts.