“Doesn’t feel like I’m done.” I couldn’t tell her that I was afraid to be done because for the seven years I’d been writing the book I hadn’t seen Mercy. She hadn’t come back. It was silly, but I wanted to believe my writing was a talisman, the talisman keeping Mercy away, keeping her from returning. Seven years was a long time. Not equal to my time in the Providence scene, but music has never been a talisman. Mercy had been there with me in Providence the whole time, hadn’t she? Even if she wasn’t at every show, she was at enough of them, and I’d bet my soul she went to every final show I’d had with each of my ill-fated bands. I knew the talisman thing was absurd, and correlation was not causation, but I also knew I wouldn’t survive her next visit. Or worse, I wouldn’t want to survive because of what I might then become. So, I would continue writing and rewriting the past. Forever if necessary.

Mom asked, “You don’t have an ending planned?”

“I guess that’s it. I’m not sure how to end it.” I tried a joke. “Is that a funny thing to say about a memoir?” novel

“You’ll figure it out. But you better make me look good when you write about me.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“Hey!”

“What? I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Yeah, sure.” She laughed ruefully, but it was the laugh of an opponent. I wondered if she was thinking something awful about me. We all think awful things about the ones we’re closest to. She followed it up with “You were always so creative. I’m sure it’s great because you’re very talented at everything you do, and I can’t wait to read it.” She said it with such sincerity, I felt awful for thinking she was thinking awful things about me.

“Thank you. Yeah, we’ll see.”

“You could end the book with us chatting at the kitchen table. Airing grievances.”

“Oh, is it that time now?”

“It’s always that time. Hey, I’m on my third glass of wine.” She adjusted herself in her chair, settling in. “Have you heard from your father lately?” His name was never spoken; simply “your father,” with an emphasis on your, as though I were due some ownership or blame for who he was.

“No. Haven’t talked to him in a while. Since late August, I think.”

“That’s because in the eyes of his church you don’t exist, you never happened.” Mom was in her glory, getting to be angry on my behalf.

“Ma, we’re both busy—why do you still get so upset over the annulment thing? I don’t believe in it, and you don’t believe in it. It doesn’t matter to me. So, whatever, right? Or do you believe in it? It’s okay if you do. I get it.” She grew up in a strict Catholic family, and while she hadn’t been to a church in decades, she still prayed to Saint Anthony if she lost anything in the house.