Prologue

1973

 

 

It was different this time.

I didn’t know how, or why; I just knew it was.

Even at five years old, I knew the difference between high and dead.

Watching her from my hiding place, I stared silently at her slack jaw and pallid skin. Her chest was rising and falling, quickly at first and then slowly. Her mouth was open, the hue of her pale tongue just showing near her yellow teeth. I wanted to reach over and close her lips, but was too afraid to.

I didn’t want to touch her.

I never did—not when she was like this.

She wasn’t my mommy when she was like this. She was a monster.

Gone were her loving arms and soft kisses, and instead she was…someone else.

I glanced at the ticking clock above the fireplace, wishing that I could make time speed up. I didn’t know what time it was; I couldn’t tell the time yet, but Butch had said he would be home by 4 p.m. and he had pointed to where the hands of the clock would be at that time, so I would know. But it seemed so far away now, and I wondered if I should go get help, because this time was different.

I knew it.

I started to crawl out from under the kitchen table. It was a big old wooden thing, with scratches and score marks across the top. Underneath was where Butch had carved both of our names. I almost bumped my head as I was getting out from under it; I was getting bigger now, but I ducked just in time, thankfully. My head still hurt where she’d hit me and I rubbed it tenderly, feeling the large bump below my fingertips.

She would be sorry when she came around—she always was. I was her Jesse, her little gunslinger, and she loved me more than the moon and the stars. She couldn’t help the things she did; she was sick. I understood that.

She was lying on the hard linoleum floor, and I crawled to her, my blue eyes blinking slowly as I took in her face, my body drawing closer to her.

Vomit had dribbled out of the corner of her mouth. It smelled bad, like stale cookies and old carrots. The needle was still poked in her arm, and even though Butch had said never ever to touch them, I couldn’t help myself. I reached over and I pulled it out of her arm, because I didn’t like it still being stuck in her. If I could, I would have taken all of the pain and the poison out of her too, so I could have had my mommy back.

A small drop of blood bubbled to the surface where the needle had been stuck in her skin, and I wiped it away with the sleeve of my dirty gray hoody.

Her skin felt cold—too cold for my mom, because Mommy was always warm and soft. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, wondering what to do. I made my way to the living room and got the blanket from across the back of our brown sofa, and then I dragged it back to her in the kitchen, carefully avoiding the vomit, and I laid it over her, hoping it would warm her enough.

I sat and watched her, not wanting to move in case she needed me. I still had the needle in my hand, so I put it on the table, out of her reach, and I prayed that Butch would come home soon, because he would know what to do.

Her body got even colder, and I curled up against her side and put my arm around her to help keep her warm. I needed to pee but didn’t want to leave her alone, and at some point I must have fallen asleep and peed myself, because when I woke up, Butch was picking me up and I was wet and cold.

The fading sunlight shone in through the kitchen window, glinting off the wedding band she still wore. It had a green stone in it that matched her eyes. She used to tell us that that was why Daddy had given it to her.

Butch carried me across the kitchen.

I cried for her then, for my mom.

I reached out with my small hands and clawed at Butch as he continued walking, ignoring my tears and screams.

But Butch continued on, whispering in my ear that we would be okay together, that he wouldn’t ever leave me. And that he would always be there for me, no matter what.

We passed my daddy on the way out. He was standing in the doorway with his arms folded over his huge chest, his gaze on Mommy.

I knew he was my daddy because Mommy kept a picture of him by her bed. She told me he was the love of her life. She told me that they were like the modern-day Bonnie and Clyde and that they were meant to be together forever.

But Daddy rarely came to visit, and when he did, he didn’t look at Mommy like he did in that picture, even though she still looked at him like that. And he never, never, ever looked at me with anything like that. I was scared of Daddy, even though Mommy said not to be.

Daddy turned away from the kitchen, and put the house phone to his ear, the long green curly cord dangling like spaghetti. He sounded angry-sad, a mixture of the two things. And I could understand that, because I felt the same way. I was angry-sad. Angry because I didn’t want to leave. Angry because I wanted my mommy to stop hurting herself like this, and sad because I already missed her.

All three of us left the house—me, my big brother Butch (who was carrying me), and my daddy, and we climbed in daddy’s truck. And then we left, and I never saw my mommy or my home again.

Butch said it was going to be okay, and not to cry because it would make Daddy angry. He said Mommy was in a better place now anyway. But I didn’t understand.

Because how could my Mommy be in a better place when I wasn’t with her?