The Fifth Step

As a squirrel darts from under her feet and disappears up a tree trunk, Karen imagines having Golden Gate Park all to herself. Before dog walkers arrive, before joggers cut through the dew-dampened paths, before the tents along Haight Street begin to stir, the illusion of solitude is uncanny. She steps over a discarded hypodermic needle in the gravel path. A sour tang drifts from nearby bushes. The park is quiet; the thick fog--damp and chilling. She tucks the ends of her neatly knotted scarf into the collar of her windbreaker.

At sixty-six, Karen Franecky has miles of road ahead, though lately that road has begun to narrow. She draws in a lungful of crisp air and gives the apt metaphor a satisfied smile. Not Stephen King, but also not bad for a retired nurse. Indeed, for almost two years now her life has been a walk in the--

"Please."

A woman stands in Karen's path. Palm outstretched. A wide metal ring gleams on her index finger. The fingernails are edged with dirt. The other hand, sporting a similar ring, flexes constantly, fingers curling and stretching like a pianist warming up. Dressed in a dirty-white Giants hoodie and jeans pale at the knees, the woman flicks her eyes past Karen, scanning the path behind her.

"Please. I need a favor."

Karen sidesteps the unexpected obstacle. People ask for things all the time, and the safest response is to keep walking.

"Sorry. No favors for strangers." She is eager to continue her walk and to live the rest of her day: an hour of container gardening on her terrace, two hours of self-paced research on psychodynamic therapy, lunch with Diane, an afternoon nap, the last chapter of The Old Lady Who Broke All the Rules for tomorrow's book club, calorie-smart dinner from Factor Foods, and Netflix.

"But that's the point--us being strangers." The crow's feet at the corners of the woman's eyes and smokers' lines creasing around her mouth are deeper than her voice suggests. "Just hear me out." She leans forward to study Karen's face. "You look like someone who listens. People usually don't. A couple of minutes. If you still say no--fine. You could ..." She swallows, and clears her throat. "You could be saving a life."

Saving a life? Save the drama for your momma, Lady of the Rings. Karen keeps walking past a strip of yellow-and-black caution tape, caught between two trees and now pulled tight by the wind, but her steps grow shorter, less certain. The serenity of the morning walk fades, along with the faint fragrance of eucalyptus on the breeze. The woman that follows her smells of cigarettes and could use a shower. Her breathing is shallow, rapid, restless.

You must be under a great deal of stress, frightened by something that happened recently or, perhaps, is happening now? Karen's professional instinct stirs. Thirty-plus years of psychiatric nursing don't vanish with retirement.

"All right. One minute." Karen stops, pivots. "The moment I feel uncomfortable, I'm gone."

"Sure. Thanks." She glances along the empty path and takes a deep breath. "Hi. I'm Ann, and I'm an alcoholic."

Karen blinks. "You're with AA?" The name tugs at her heart. Alcoholics Anonymous couldn't save her sister Susan, but they tried--and Karen has never forgotten that kindness. Besides, she recently learned that Carl Jung--her favorite psychiatrist--helped shape the program's early thinking. The connection pleases her.

"Yes." Ann nods, eyes lowered. "It sounds strange when I say it. Even after ... I don't know ... a hundred times?"

Karen waits.

Ann rolls a guitar pick between her thumb and forefinger with a deliberate rhythm. "I used to play in a band and party like a rock star ..." Her lips curl into a faint smile. "Anyway, people think alcoholic means failure. Broken. Lost." She shrugs, tapping the pick lightly against her palm. "But the program says you don't have to do it alone."

"I know," Karen says. "I'm listening."

"Thanks." Ann exhales slowly, unevenly. "My drinking was the easiest answer. Stress? Drink. Loneliness? Drink more." Her lips twitch. "It filled the empty space ... for a while. Until it didn't." She looks around, then up, meets Karen's eyes. "I found AA. People who understand losing control." She pauses. "Two months sober. Two months and three days."

"Congratulations," Karen says as her interest curdles into disappointment. Stress? Loneliness? Who doesn't feel that way? Nothing like the night Susan confessed she wasn't comfortable in her own body. That had turned Karen's world upside down. But she hadn't lost control then. She certainly doesn't need saving now.

Karen knows that professional demeanor matters as much as the words. Calm voice and open posture invite darkness out of hiding. "What can I do for you, Ann?"

"Well. It isn't much. Just listen . . . may we sit?" Ann nods toward a weathered park bench a few yards off the path, tucked beneath the eucalyptus branches. "It's easier to talk when . . . you know . . ."

The bench sits in a shallow shadow-pocket. Spider silk stretches taut from armrest to a low branch. Karen studies Ann--nervous posture, rapid breathing, classic early-recovery anxiety. She has calmed far more agitated patients.

"We may," Karen says, stepping toward the bench. "But . . . I don't have much--"

"Time? I know." Ann's eyes are slate gray, though one seems darker than the other. Perhaps it's the light. The sun still hides behind a veil of overcast. The ocean breeze still bites. It may be a while before mothers and nannies push strollers through the park.

Ann reaches for Karen's hand. Her palm is cold. Small. Trembling. "Please, I just ... need to do this."

Karen allows herself to be guided.

Ann directs her to the tree-side of the bench.

They sit.

Deeper in the grove, a branch creaks.

"I'm working the Steps," Ann says, teeth glinting between thin, too-taut lips. "Do you know what those are?"

"I do." Karen nods. "Well ... the first three, at least." Susan was on the third step when she decided her life wasn't worth living.

"I'm on the Fifth," Ann says, voice low. "Some call it the hardest. That's where I admit everything. To myself, to a higher power, and ... to another human being." She twists the metal ring on her finger. "The book says you have to tell the truth exactly as it happens. No softening it."

"I see." Karen nods. "That's where I come in." The language is familiar. In Jungian terms, this is the shadow rising--the hidden parts of the self asking to be seen. Most people carry that darkness quietly their whole lives. A few try to face it.

Karen studies Ann's thin smile, the taut eyes. Yes. This woman looks ready.

"Yes. That's where you come in." Ann leans forward, elbows on her knees. "The Fifth Step is about honesty," she says. "Real honesty. No pretending anymore." She turns her head and looks directly at Karen. "You see, the thing about addiction is that you spend years lying to yourself." A small smile touches her lips. "And then one day you decide to stop lying."

Ann reaches into the kangaroo pouch of her hoodie. "This is the high E string from my first guitar." She twists it slowly, as if testing its strength. "Snapped it in a rage." Her voice drops, almost casual. "Saying things out loud helps. If I don't face my demons, what stops me from drinking again?"

Karen nods. All right. Let's hear the worst of it. She reaches over and pats Ann's knee, offering an encouraging smile.

Ann doesn't move. Sweat pearls above her brow. "Thanks. You're a good listener."

Karen chuckles. "Comes with experience."

Ann rises to her feet. "Sitting still makes it harder to say things." She circles the bench slowly, as if giving herself time to think.

Karen has seen this before--patients "walking out" the difficult parts of their story. The eucalyptus leaves whisper overhead, thin branches crossing like wires. A droplet of cold fog trickles down Karen's temple.

"I feel like I can tell you anything." The way Ann says it makes hair on the back of Karen's neck prickle.

"I learn to tell the truth as I go," Ann says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "So here it is. All of it. The truth, naked and raw. It hurts. But it's real." Her eyes linger a second too long on Karen's scarf. Then she steps behind the bench. "Maybe that means I'm finally ready to become what I am."

Something brushes the front of Karen's throat.

"Ann?" For an instant she assumes it's a drifting spider silk. But no, the sudden pressure bites into the soft hollow beneath her jaw. A ring of fire tightens around Karen's neck before she can look up. The pain is bright, searing. Karen's breath catches. Her hands fly upward, fingers scrabble, clawing at the invisible something cutting into her skin. Feet dig into gravel. The bench jolts as she tries to stand. Her knees buckle, then straighten. She jerks upward, fighting gravity, fighting the force that holds her fast from behind, constricting her windpipe.

"Ann!" A gasp tears from Karen's lungs--half inhale, half scream, raw and ragged--as a cold glint of the broken guitar string flashes through her mind. Her heart hammers out staccato--thump-thump-thump. Her lungs fight for air that won't come. Through the fear and confusion, a thought surfaces: I should have kept walking.

Ann's voice from behind is close now, her breath warm against Karen's ear. "Turns out, this is the part I like."

Words dissolve into terror. Karen convulses. Once. Twice. Limbs flail. Fire flares. Breath rattles.

The squirrel on the nearby tree turns its head toward the distant bark of a dog.