“You’re the one who carries this shit around with you all day. You’re the one that freaks out at the thought of any guy touching you. Oh, unless it happens to be your brother’s childhood best friend, right? Cause, yeah. He’s really going to go for you.”

“Jackson, come on,” Beth says.

Tears brim in my eyes, but I don’t want to show that he’s getting to me.

“Face it, sis,” Jackson says. “You can run away to dead end jobs and dull your mind with those pills, but you’re still going to be a freak. Doing this…it’s the only thing you’ll ever be good at. Making people believe you’re a nut bag. Cause you know what? It ain’t much of a stretch!”

I look my brother dead in the eyes. My chin trembles. “Go to hell,” I say. He laughs. It’s the worst way to respond. Whirling around, I head for the door.

Jackson calls after me, “Fine. We’re doing it without you then! Have fun pouring coffee, or whatever!”

*        *         *

I’ve been pushing trusty Green Bean for hours, straining my old station wagon harder than it needs to go. Even now the engine’s groaning, but I’m almost there. Despite the peaceful farms and the lazy cows chewing grass in the fields, I can’t help but smoke cigarette after cigarette. A few hundred feet away, I see a worn sign: Norfolk. Next exit. Turning the wheel, I make a quick right off the highway.

I’m always surprised how nothing really changes on my street. The abandoned cars are still rusting by the weeds in our neighbor’s yard. The white fence is still rotting around our house. I pull into the driveway of my childhood home, an old, two-story bungalow. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I smoke my last cigarette and study the paint-chipped front porch, slowly building up the courage to get out of the car.

It’s not that I don’t like my father, or even that we don’t get along, but going home always makes me think of my mother. She took her last breath in this house, and I don’t like being reminded that she’s no longer with us.

Walking steadily, I follow the cracked concrete steps up to the front door and knock. At first there’s silence on the other side. I wonder if my father’s sleeping, but then I hear lumbering footsteps.

“Who is it?” my father asks.

“It’s me,” I reply.