Chapters (38)
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- epilogue
The front door opened before we got near it, revealing a very thin woman in faded jeans and—Lord help me—a red halter top. She looked far closer to seventy than forty-six. Jocelyn waved her cigarette-free left hand at us and took a deep hit of nicotine with her right. Her smile revealed yellowed teeth. I guess I should’ve been glad she had teeth at all. Her hair was a somewhat believable shade of blonde, but frizzy and twelve inches too long by any standard. My first emotion was relief that I looked nothing like her, no matter what Rick thought. My second was intense anger. I tried to stuff it down, but it was like attempting to put a king-sized pillow in a standard case. Anger was overflowing every-where and I couldn’t stop it. I stood back a few feet as Deanna shook Jocelyn’s left hand awkwardly. My opening line was, “Remember me, your daughter?”
The frozen smile melted into a layer of sagging skin. I almost felt sorry for her, for whatever illness she might be suffering. I couldn’t believe there was enough booze and pills in the world to age anyone this much.
My mother opened her mouth and released a voice that had passed gravelly years ago and conjured barbed wire and shattered glass instead. “Come on in, Ronni and Deanna. I’m glad y’all came.” She enveloped me in an awkward hug that felt like a straightjacket.
Jocelyn seemed to feel better than she looked; maybe she was not sick after all. Certainly not sick enough to stop her exaggerated hip sway. I rolled my eyes at her back, watching carefully as she walked to her nubby brown sofa and sat, waving us into mismatched recliners. On my right was the biggest TV screen I’d ever seen, blaring “Wheel of Fortune.” She muted it with a flourish and settled into the worn cloth. I spotted two upholstery holes near her knees.
“Do y’all want a Coke or something?” It came out: Do y’all wont a Coke or sumpum?
“No, thank you,” I answered for both of us. “I’m here because Deanna thought I should meet with you, Mama.” I nearly choked on the word. “I’ve had a hard time over the years, but I’m grown now and doing fine. I wanted you to see that.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry. There’s not enough words I can say to tell you how sorry. I was a addict most all my life. Still am, have to remind myself,” she paused to locate an ashtray, “but I ain’t usin’. Haven’t for a long time. Don’t drink, neither. I got a six month chip at meetin’ last week.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at her.