Sara read her journal, ignoring the pouting figure seated opposite of her.
"Day 1. They want me to write down my feelings. What a joke! I'm locked up in some sort of demented summer camp for druggies and alcoholics. How am I supposed to feel? Mad? Trapped? Betrayed? Yep, I've got those covered. I know I told Griss that anything was better than going on like I was, but this was not what I had in mind. I know it's a 'well-known and respected rehabilitation facility', but basically I'm locked up with the people I usually try to put behind bars. How exactly is this supposed to help me? I think I made a big mistake, and now they won't let me take it back. I'm scared."
Sara's mouth turned up in a crooked smile. She could have left off the whole beginning of that entry – the last sentence pretty much summed up her feelings on her first day of rehab. Admitting she had a problem and actually dealing with it had been one of the hardest things she had ever done in her life. Here, almost twenty years later, the confusion and pain she had felt still shook her.
"Is this some sort of silent treatment to make me feel guilty?" the teenaged girl sitting across from her asked, slumping even further into her seat. "'Cause this is just boring."
Sara lifted her eyes to the sullen girl and sent a mental apology – another one – to her parents for her own fits of adolescent sulking. Knowing how it felt to be that age and think no one cared about or understood you was the only thing that allowed her to keep from snapping back. "Just give me one more minute," she said gently. "We need to talk."
Flipping through the book, bits and phrases caught her eye. "My roommate is crazy. She has a coke habit and can't seem to shut up about it . . . a 280 lb. body builder backed into a corner and crying like a baby in group. The poor guy just crumbled . . . Grissom came to see me today. How awkward! . . . I guess they had a point about holding things inside. I do feel better since I told them . . . just stupid – I want out of this place . . . new roomie today. She seems okay, but I'll miss Shannon. . . . I realized that all that junk was just an excuse . . . God, I want a drink . . . talk about discharging me tomorrow. Am I ready for this?"
The memories flooded back, and it took her a minute to focus back on her surroundings. The girl watched her through heavily-mascaraed eyelashes and seemed to note when she came back to herself.
"Give me a break, Mom. It was just a couple of beers. It's not that big of a deal." At Sara's raised eyebrow, she hurried on. "I'm so sick of you treating me like a child!"
"You're right – I have been treating you like a child. It's time I stopped." Sara took a deep breath and forged on. "I want to give you this. It's a journal I started when I went through rehab." At this, the young girl sat up in surprise, shock evident in her clear blue eyes.
"It happened a long time ago, before you were born. I got pulled over for a DUI. That was one of the worst nights of my life. They didn't charge me, but they called my supervisor to come get me. It was humiliating when Griss came and picked me up."
The girl's shock faded enough for her to find her voice. "You? How could that happen? You're Miss Perfect – you never do anything wrong. It was some kind of mistake, right?"
"Yeah, it was a mistake. My mistake. Oh, I had my reasons – tough cases, no one to talk to, crappy love life. But in the end, it was my decision to hide from all of that in a bottle. I didn't know how to deal with everything, so I found a way to escape it all. Not too smart, huh? I never really talked about it while you were growing up, 'cause that's not really something a kid needs to know about their mother. But I think you're old enough to understand now, and you're starting to face some of the same decisions. I just hope you don't have to learn the hard way, like I did."
As Sara handed the thin notebook to her daughter, she continued. "The really ironic part is that I hadn't had that much to drink the night I got picked up. Just a few beers."
She got up to leave then, hoping the last phrase would sink in, but, as usual, her daughter had to have the final word. "There's not going to be anything in here about you and Dad having sex or anything gross like that, is there?"
"Jenna Michelle Grissom! What a thing to ask! I'm trying to help you, not scar you for life." Sara shook her head at her daughter, wondering if she had just bared her soul for a teenager too self-absorbed to hear what she was trying to say. "Smart-alleck, hard-headed girl!" she muttered under her breath. As she turned back to the door, though, she saw her daughter slide the book over and turn it open to the first page.
Closing the door gently, she leaned back on the doorframe and expelled her breath in a huge sigh. "You survived, I see," came a voice in her right ear. Sara jumped before her mind registered that the honeyed voice was that of her husband. She whacked him on the arm before sliding into his familiar embrace. He was probably the only person that knew how hard those times had been for her. He also knew how difficult it had been to tell their daughter about it, even though she needed to hear it.
"Yeah, Griss, I survived," she breathed with relief. "Now I think we just need to give her a little time to read and digest all this. You can poke your head in later to tell her how long she's grounded."
A small grin played at her mouth as she took his hand and led him from the doorway. Even though it had been hard, that was easier than Sara thought it would be.
(Author's note: This was a response to this week's Unbound Improv challenge, where the first and last lines are provided. I wasn't trying to make Sara out as weak – I wanted to show that she had the strength to face up to her problems instead of putting them off on someone else. I just didn't realize how hard it was to be serious without being preachy! Anyway, I don't own the characters, and any mistakes are mine. I hope you enjoyed.)