“Now, wait,” Greg interjected. Later, he would tell me that in Molly’s words he could hear his wife: You could’ve at least told me you were a junkie before I married you. She’d shriveled him down to a raisin of a man, so much that he couldn’t look his own daughters in the eye when they told him they loved him. And for that he would always seek to hurt her back, cheating on her incessantly and injecting himself into oblivion.

“No one’s under any obligation to announce their sexuality,” he continued. “What do you want her to do, get a tattoo, wear a sign?”

He looked at me tentatively. I could tell he was scared of how I’d react, that I was going to be mad for some reason. But I just felt ashamed that he could still muster sympathy for me in spite of how cruel I’d been. He cleared his throat. “Richard, man, what’s your secret?”

“Well,” Richard said, “I can tell you how I landed here as a patient, fifteen years ago.” I took a deep breath, slowly looking up as he continued. “I asked my son to rake the leaves one morning before I left for work. When I came home and saw that he hadn’t done it, I went inside and unleashed hell on him. It was the last straw for me, the one that made me seek help.”

When I realized I’d been right about him, I didn’t feel vindicated, or smug, or pleased. I felt frightened, and disturbed by the familiarity. Worse than receiving rage was the ability to detect its remnants.

Chapter 7

7

“YOU BITCH,” SAID MY MOTHER WHEN I ANSWERED MY office phone one afternoon. I was twenty-three years old and had just started working at a magazine in New York after spending the past six months in Italy.

Fear took over. And confusion.

“Because of you, you bitch,” she said, spitting out the last word, “I’m running around like an idiot in the fucking rain, looking for stamps.”

It took me a moment to understand what she was talking about. That past Friday I had been visiting home and she’d asked if I could pick up a sheet of stamps. “Sure,” I’d said. “Can I get them before I leave?”

“Okay, mama,” she said. “No problem.” By the time I left on Sunday evening I’d forgotten about the stamps, but she didn’t seem to notice. Not until just then.

“I’m sorry,” I said, cupping my hand over the receiver, “but I can’t talk about this right now. I’ll call you when I leave the office.” The phone rang seconds after I hung up.

“Don’t you ever hang up on me,” she rasped.