Hit and Run by Maria Frankland (best book recommendations txt) 📗

down at my antenatal check-up and my wonderful midwife said, “God won’t make you carry more than you can bear.” That has always stayed with me.

On my way to the meeting, I find myself at the ‘spot.’ I don’t know how I have ended up here – I hadn’t even planned to come this way. I slow down as I pass, realising that I can’t even recount the journey I’ve made so far. I keep doing this – zoning out. It’s dangerous really. If I can’t recall my journey, I probably shouldn’t be on the road. I guess that I’m just trying to hold everything inside my head.

More bunches of flowers have been added to Rob’s roadside memorial. I have laid none and don’t feel inclined to. Not with everything that is coming to light. Somehow, I have to piece it together and try to reconcile everything with the husband I thought I knew. I don’t have time to stop and inspect the flowers. If you don’t get to the meeting on time, the door is closed. They’re strict on that.

We only know each other by first names here. When I first started coming, I worried I may be recognised, or know someone else. That’s why I joined a group in Ilkley, rather than Otley. Still, it’s not exactly a million miles away. There are one or two people who look familiar, but I can’t place them.

The heatwave has broken today, which I’m glad about. It was almost taunting me, the beautiful sunshine, clear blue sky and cheery people dressed in summery clothes. It’s been too much at odds with my own darkness and my struggle to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

“Would you like a hug?” My sponsor approaches me as I make myself a drink. The familiar warmth pricks at my eyes again as I allow myself to be momentarily enveloped in the warmth of another human being. Lately, even Jack’s not as cuddly as he normally is, seemingly preferring the company of his granddad. Somewhere in my psyche though, I’m aware he’s detaching from me, perhaps because he fears losing me as well.

Nobody here seems to know anything about what has happened to me this week. I guess that even if they’ve heard the news, they won’t make the connection with me as they will have only heard Rob’s name. They only know me as Fiona, a recovering alcoholic, not Fiona Matherson, wife, mother, daughter, and woman.

We all sit down, and the usual introductions pass around the circle. I want to scream out, how can you all be so trivial? Do you want to know what’s happening to me? I’ve got a lid on my temper these days though, so I keep schtum, I used to lose it readily when I was in my twenties. I’ve lost count of how many jobs I walked out of and how many arguments, to the point of brawling at times, that I got into when drunk. I’m relieved I’m not that person anymore.

We chant AA’s cornerstone twelve steps, church-like. At each meeting, a member takes a turn to be the main sharer about an aspect of their recovery from alcoholism. We’re not allowed to interrupt, but we can add comments or ask questions once they’ve finished speaking.

I sit through a rendition of the man’s three instances of being banned for drink driving. He stopped drinking on the third occasion, after knocking down and killing a pedestrian. It really is close to the bone right now. He had been three times over the limit and served nearly two years in prison. He’s found God since being released, he says, and subsequently has to be reminded by this week’s chairperson that Alcoholics Anonymous is not affiliated with any religion.

I look around the room. Everyone appears to be listening intently. My sponsor keeps looking at me. She’s the only one in here who knows what has happened. There’s a strong stench of feet combined with an overpowering deodorant smell. Cloth is draped over boxes of toys and musical instruments, and the AA’s posters have been temporarily pinned up around the room. All is normal and familiar in here. Except it’s not.

The man’s voice drones on. He’s had his driving licence returned this week and knows he will never lose it again. He’s thankful for what the period of sobriety in prison, along with AA, has done for him. It’s all about him. I want to shout at him. What about your victim? What about their family? I wonder if they, too, have been left with empty bank accounts, and secrets which are crawling out of the ashes of the person who died. I can’t sit in here, I really can’t. I push my chair back with a scrape and lurch towards the door.

“Fiona!” I hear my sponsor call as I slide into the car. “Come back.”

My wheels screech as I reverse the Jeep, and again as I lurch forwards. I drive away from her then pull up in the road once I’ve got far enough away. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

“Bastard!” I shout into the void of the car. “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” I thump the steering wheel in time to my shouting until my fists feel as though they might bleed. I don’t know who is the bastard. Rob, the AA man, Bryony, Mum, James Turner, Phillip Bracken, or the bloody lot of them. “Bastard.” I thump the wheel, less enthusiastically this time, and my body dissolves into tears. I cradle the steering wheel in my arms and let my head rest on it, sobbing so hard that my body shakes. “Bastard!” I howl into the silence.

“Are you alright?” I hear a muffled voice from the pavement and a tap on the passenger side window of the Jeep. Without looking at the man, I turn the key and quickly drive away, tyres screeching again.

* * *

I’m in the clear,

I’m sure of