BooksBarbecue
Back Spells for Lost Things
Chapters (42)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. – 1 – Willow
  6. – 2 – Mason
  7. – 3 – Willow
  8. – 4 – Mason
  9. – 5 – Willow
  10. – 6 – Mason
  11. – 7 – Willow
  12. – 8 – Mason
  13. – 9 – Willow
  14. – 10 – Mason
  15. – 11 – Willow
  16. – 12 – Mason
  17. – 13 – Willow
  18. – 14 – Mason
  19. – 15 – Willow
  20. – 16 – Mason
  21. – 17 – Willow
  22. – 18 – Mason
  23. – 19 – Willow
  24. – 20 – Mason
  25. – 21 – Willow
  26. – 22 – Mason
  27. – 23 – Willow
  28. – 24 – Mason
  29. – 25 – Willow
  30. – 26 – Mason
  31. – 27 – Willow
  32. – 28 – Mason
  33. – 29 – Willow
  34. – 30 – Mason
  35. – 31 – Willow
  36. – 32 – Mason
  37. – 33 – Willow
  38. – 34 – Mason
  39. Acknowledgments
  40. More from the Author
  41. About the Author
  42. ALSO BY JENNA EVANS WELCH

I stumble over to my bed and let it drop onto the comforter, the contents shuffling and jangling inside. It takes me a full minute to work up the courage to open it, and then when I do, I wish I hadn’t. It’s a field of landmines disguised as ordinary items. Photos, ticket stubs, random bracelets and tubes of ChapStick, a yearbook, even a playbill.

My mom was in a play called The Importance of Being Earnest. I scan the cast list and see my mom’s name listed as playing Lady Bracknell. Seeing her name in print makes me feel like my head has disconnected from my body. I’m reaching for the yearbook when I find the strips of images of my mom and Emma taken in a photo booth. There are about ten sheets of photos, and a few of them are of random people posing, but they are mostly my mom and Emma. Emma looks pretty close to how she does now, with long hair and minimal makeup. But my mom…

My brain doesn’t know how to process what I’m looking at. As a teenager she was just as gorgeous as everyone had said—tall with long dark hair and a massive smile that I think I only saw in person a handful of times. She looks like someone with a huge future ahead of her. Someone who was going to do very big things. My hands are shaking now. I hate this.

And then I realize why. I don’t know the person in the photographs. Pre-addiction Mom is a stranger. She’s beautiful and hopeful looking, but she isn’t the person who let me sleep on the roof of the car the summer we lived in our car in a national forest, or who I tucked blankets around whenever she passed out on the couch. If high-school Mom walked in the room, she’d have to introduce herself—that’s how far she is from the person I know.

This mythical version of her may not have some of her flaws, but she isn’t the person I want. I want my mom. I can accept who she is, why can’t everyone else?

And Emma. My throat tightens again, this time with anger. Emma apparently used to smile all the time. In every single one, she’s beaming, usually with her arm thrown around my mom’s shoulders. What was her goal with this? To prove she actually had been a good friend to my mom? Because that is obviously not the case. She was clearly only okay with the pre-addict version of my mom, and she hadn’t been there when it counted.