I carry the two strongest fans into my bedroom. I turn them both on high and aim them at my bed to combat the humidity. It takes forever to fall asleep. Not only is there the heat to contend with, but there’s also the manure, which will linger for at least another week, maybe two if the weather stays hot. But eventually I do fall asleep, closing my eyes on a world in which my greatest foes are the heat and the manure, having no idea that when I next reopen them, hours later, it’ll be to an altogether different life, one in which I’ve been robbed of everything I feel sure about and everything I think I know.

When I recall that night, I like to think that my mother’s hair was wet, that she sat on the sofa and ate a bowl of orange sherbet, which was her favorite, and that in her mind there were thoughts of happier days on the horizon. I like to think that she watched Golden Girls, which was her favorite show, and that our dog, a black and white mutt no bigger than a beagle that my mother absolutely adored, sat with her and kept his head in her lap for her to scratch, and that for once all was right with the world. But I don’t know if her hair was wet, or if there was sherbet in the freezer, or even if Golden Girls was on that night. I don’t know if any of those things are true. What I do know is that on the final night of my mother’s life, we watched a terrible horror movie that made us laugh, and that instead of hugging her goodnight and telling her that I loved her, I merely pointed at her and said that I was going to make her proud. And those were the last words I spoke to her, the last time I ever saw her alive.

thirty

1

AFTER A MOSTLY UNEVENTFUL two weeks following my shattered whiskey glass tirade, Carolyn walked in and dropped the manuscript on the desk. It was after seven in the evening and I was still in bed.

“Did you get out of bed today?” she asked.

“I did not.”