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Back Confess to Me Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Sharon Doering
  3. Title Page
  4. Dedication
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. Author’s Note
  86. Acknowledgements
  87. About the Author

The coughing fit that followed—violent hacks her body didn’t have energy for, tears rolling down her papery cheeks—sent me into a panic. I dropped the cigarette into a barely eaten plastic cup of applesauce, the foil standing up like a sail. I slipped my hand behind her moist gauzy gown and pulled her to sitting. Please don’t die on my watch. This would be bad for my marriage.

Her coughing calmed and she said, her voice wispy and brittle as a wasp’s nest, “Put me down. Just put me down.”

I eased her down.

“That was good,” she said, easing her eyes closed, her dry lips stretched into a smile.

“Judy, that was anything but good.”

Peaceful, she said, “Now, how is your mother?”

Which caught me off guard. Judy and I had known each other for seven years. We saw each other two to seven times a year depending on the year (the year Emily was born; it had been seven). We had an understanding. She knew I didn’t like to talk about my family. When Trevor and I got engaged, I’d told her I was not inviting my parents to the wedding because they were alcoholics.

“I don’t like to talk about her, you know that, Judy,” I said gently, as if she were a child.

“I was worried about you,” she said, her eyes remaining closed. “But you seemed to turn out fine.” She smacked her lips together, rolled them against each other.

“Thank you for your worry. That’s very sweet.”

She exhaled so slowly and quietly, I thought she’d fallen asleep. Eyes closed, she said, “Poor woman. They say God only gives us what we can bear, but she sure did get a heaping.”

“She’s not alive anymore.”

“Oh, that’s right. You told me that.” I hadn’t. “Well, it’s for the best, for the best,” she said. Her breathing deepening, rattling. Her eyes rolled back and forth under the lids; a sliver of white sclera exposed. “The devil knows us. Oh, you may not know him, but he knows you, and sometimes, sometimes he squeezes in.”

“Judy, what are you talking about?”

“He knew your mother.”

“Judy?”

“He squeezed in.” Her eyeballs twitched under the lids.

“Judy?”

In response, she rattled out a snore.

She’s out of her mind. Dying, and high as a kite.

Still. When I walked into the kitchen to throw the cigarette and applesauce cup into the garbage, my hands were trembling.

“Worshipping the devil is not necessarily crazier than worshipping God. Just like the love of God makes people feel special, so does the love of Satan.”

Doctor Clifford Paulson, PhD Psychology
Transcripts from the Sixth Annual Conference on
Adult Manifestations of Childhood Trauma

THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, CINCINNATI, OHIO

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TREVOR