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nails jagged, bitten and dirty, Everything about her was hideous: she was revolting, she disgusted herself, she
was
disgusting. And deeply angry. She didn’t know this person. Who was she?
    Rosie looked up from the sofa and smiled. ‘You ready?’
    Lorraine looked around for the pink-framed sunglasses. She pushed them on, as if to hide behind them. ‘Thank you for taking me in like this. It’s very good of you.’
    Rosie, searching for her keys, wafted her hand. ‘I made a vow, because somebody helped me out when I was down. I promised that I’d help someone else if I could. I guess that person is you.’
     
     
    Lorraine sat at the back of the meeting, hands clenched, face hidden behind the sunglasses. The other people there had greeted her with such warmth that she had wanted to run out of the building. Gripping her hand, Rosie had found her a seat. She was introduced only as Lorraine. Nobody gave their last name unless they wanted to. As the meeting began, Lorraine was able to look at the others. None looked in bad shape though a few had a lost air about them, as they sat with their heads bowed, or stared into space. Slowly she began to pay attention to those who told their stories.
    One woman recalled how she had not known who she was for fifteen years, because those years had merged into one long, blurred binge. Now she was smart, and positive, and proud that she had been dry for four years. She had met someone who had given her love and stability. Soon, she hoped, she would have the confidence to tell him that she was an alcoholic. He had been so embarrassed for her when, sober, she had tripped over a paving stone and fallen flat on her face. She laughed then, saying that she hadn’t had the heart to tell him she had been face down on the floor more often than she had been upright. She grew emotional, lifting up her arms as if she were at some Baptist church meeting. Lorraine sighed with boredom. ‘I’m standing upright now, and I intend to remain this way, just as, when I get a little stronger, I will tell him that I am an alcoholic. Hopefully he will come to one of our meetings so he can fully understand my illness and that I believe, at long last, I am in recovery. I want to recover — just as I know I will always be an alcoholic. I am an alcoholic. Thank you for listening to me, thank you for being here. God bless you all…’ She burst into tears and many people clustered around her, hugging her, congratulating her.
    Lorraine remained at the back of the hall, embarrassed by the show of emotion. She was glad when the meeting ended, refusing to hold other members’ hands as they prayed together for strength and guidance. Rosie, on the other hand, was very into it all, her eyes closed, clutching the hands of two elderly women.
    Later, back at the apartment, Rosie was full of enthusiasm and energy. ‘Those meetings saved my life. Some people have been going for ten or fifteen years. When you face what you are it doesn’t stop. You will always be an alcoholic. One drink, and you’re back at square one. What you’ve got to understand is that you have an illness, and it kills you. If I hadn’t stopped drinking I’d be dead now, as would most of those people there tonight.’
    She set the table, splashed water into glasses, clanking ice cubes. She was sweating even more than usual from the heat of the stove. Even at seven in the evening, the air conditioning was so half-hearted that the temperature in the apartment was nearly eighty degrees.
    Lorraine played with her food, drank three or four glasses of water. Rosie reached over and scraped the remains of her meal onto her own plate, ploughing through the leftovers as if she were starving. Her mouth bulging with food, she waved her fork in the air: ‘Now, what are we going to do about finding you some work? You’ve no money, right? As soon as we’ve finished supper, we can catch a bus, go to another meeting across town, see if maybe anyone has any