“Should I get help?” Denis asked.
“No, I’m all right.” Moments passed, Billy blinking, breathing. Just as he thought he felt a little better and they could both get back to work, the words spilled out. “I’m afraid I’m not able for all this—that I won’t lose the weight and I’ll let myself, everyone, down.”
Denis patted Billy’s back, sticking his shirt to his skin. “You don’t have to go this alone, you know. There’s plenty of groups you can join.”
Billy shook his head. He’d already tried group meetings over the years. All that measuring and counting calories, the constant talk of food, recipes, and cheat tips—he’d left feeling ravenous, and even worse about himself. He’d hated, too, how he was always the biggest one there and how all the others had looked at him with either fear or relief, and sometimes even delight. At least I’m not as bad as him. He makes me look good. Please, God, don’t let me end up like him. The sweat oozed from Billy. He couldn’t attend a meeting with a bunch of smaller versions of him and listen to everyone go on about how hungry they felt, how deprived, how guilty. All that and still they’d be thinking how much better off they were than him.
“What about Overeaters Anonymous?” Denis asked. “There have to be OA meetings here in town—”
Billy shook his head again. “Stop, please.”
“Come on, what’s the harm in trying?” Denis said. “I’ve been a member of AA for ten years and I swear by the group meetings and the Twelve Step program. OA uses the Twelve Steps, too, I’m sure, and they work for practically everyone.”
Fresh hope came over Billy. His vision cleared and his head stopped reeling. Denis might be on to something.
*
The doors to St. Michael’s Church were locked. Billy again rattled the handles, hoping. He looked up and down the street, for someone to ask for information. He’d searched the Internet and had driven fifty miles to find this Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, hoping to ensure he didn’t run into anyone he knew. If AA could help alcoholics of every make, shape, size, and color, then surely it could help other kinds of holics, too.
He checked the doors again. He needed this meeting. Needed to get inside the church and out of sight. How would he explain himself if he was caught? That would really set tongues wagging. He’s addicted to the drink as well as the grub. He heard voices, and followed the chatter, taking him around the side of the church and into an open courtyard.
People stood talking and laughing, smoking and holding paper cups. He scanned the group, but was half blind with fear and couldn’t take in their faces. Behind them, the door to a long, whitewashed annex stood open. He pushed on through the courtyard.
The large, crowded annex appeared to be a dining room, with its high ceiling, low-hanging brass chandeliers, and the banquet tables pushed against the walls. Despite the number of people sitting about on metal chairs—there had to be seventy or more—Billy’s eyes went straight across the room to the woman sitting behind the desk, her back to the oversized fireplace and its thick wooden mantel. He pushed himself toward her.
“Do I need to sign in?” he asked, his voice faint.
“This your first time?”
He nodded.
“Nora,” she said. He nodded again, unable to get his name out. She pointed to a table next to the doorway. “You’ll find all the literature over there.”
He hesitated. “Take a seat anywhere you like,” she said. He moved to the empty back row and dropped onto a chair next to the aisle. It was only after he sat down that he realized he’d chosen the seat farthest from the exit.
Nora appeared next to him. “We have a little kitchen in the back, feel free to help yourself to tea or coffee and…”—she blushed—“and biscuits, if you want. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He followed her into the next room, filling with fresh fear over meeting someone he knew.
A handful of people stood about the small kitchen, fixing hot drinks and side plates of biscuits. He reached for a green tea bag, glanced at the shortbread treats, and turned away. After a struggle, he succeeded with the lever on the hot water dispenser, identifying much too much with the scalded tea bag.
He returned to his seat just as Nora called the meeting to order. He couldn’t make out her words, she was speaking so low. Every so often the group responded in a loud chorus, making him flinch. He couldn’t make out their response, either. Aye, perhaps? He seemed to be the only person in the room who hadn’t a clue what was going on. What was he doing here? This was a mistake. He was nothing like these people.
The man seated next to Nora said, “Hi, I’m Tim—”
“Hi, Tim.” The room’s loud chorus again startled Billy.
“I’m an alcoholic. January fifteenth, 1995.”
The woman next to Tim spoke, “Hi, I’m Claire—”