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Back Devotion Save as PDF
Chapters (47)
  1. Cover
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. Acknowledgments
  46. About the Author
  47. About the Publisher

THE NEXT THING THAT CHANGED: SHE STARTED BRINGING MEN home to dinner. I remember a long line of them, one after another. I started to hate eating at her house. I hated the way she’d ask me to show off for them—

“Tell us about what you’re learning in school,” she’d say.

“Nothing good,” I’d reply.

“Ella is very bright,” Mom would say, giving me a look.

The food was more filling at least. We ate peppers stuffed with ground beef and onions or thick creamy casseroles—the kind of food she used to bring to parties, to impress people. She’d stopped eating meat at this point, though she cooked it for us. She nibbled on slices of cheese and more of those stupid carrot sticks as we ate, drinking rum and Coke out of a tall water glass. “Do you want a sip?” one of her dates asked me. I looked at Mom, but she just giggled, so I took his glass and swished some of the drink in my mouth. It burned the back of my throat, but I didn’t make a face, knowing they would laugh at me.

Mom cleared our plates, stacking them and taking them into the kitchen. While she ran water in the sink that man said to me, “Look under the table.”

I bent over and squinted in the shadows. I could see his penis dangling from the fly of his pants, a reddish pink color, surrounded by thick black hair. I couldn’t help but think of the parasites dangling from the anglerfish. I sat back up and he winked at me, putting one finger to his lips and saying, “Shh.”

I USED TO THINK MY MOM WAS VERY SOPHISTICATED; SHE WORE her hair curled into a swirl on top of her head and sat up very straight. She had been to Africa, on an archeological dig in college, making her one of the few people in town to have ever left Oregon. She seemed stifled in our town, and told stories about her coworkers that made me picture them like apes. When I was younger we had met one of them at the bank, and I had been surprised to find him fully capable of carrying on a conversation.

It wasn’t like she left without saying goodbye. I used to say that to myself a lot, trying to count my blessings, trying to tell myself that I mattered enough at least for a goodbye. And it wasn’t like she didn’t tell me where she was going, or give me her phone number, her new address. But she did leave. She left and she never came back, and she never asked me to join her and she only called a few times, for a while. Then that stopped too.

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