Chapter Four
The church’s basement reeked of overheated coffee and bleach. Despite my total lack of interest, I’d called my therapist back and promised to make an appearance. I walked into the meeting room, surveyed the small group clustered around the coffee and donuts, and stifled the urge to pump my fist and yell, “Let’s get this party started!” Woo hoo.
Susan Findley, the group leader, spotted me as she arranged chairs. Abandoning them, she walked toward me, waving.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Erica,” she said. “I’ve been worried about you.”
I forced a smile. “Don’t worry, be happy.”
She leaned toward me and touched my arm. “Is this really so hard? I think you’ve come a long way since your discharge. I’d hate to see you backslide into using again.”
Susan was in her early thirties,
