cleaning the house, cooking our meals, and taking care of Diablo. When she was too freaked out or zoned out to leave the house (which was most of the time), Iâd hitchhike to town and get as much done as I could. Sometimes Iâd ride my bike, but it was a long ride. Also, it was almost impossible to balance the plastic bags of groceries on the handlebars without wiping out on the dirt road. This went on for a couple of months, and then something else happened. My mother became an addict.
Not a drug addict or an alcoholic, mind you. No sirree. She didnât knock back a few shots with her morning cup of coffee like my dad had, and she didnât suddenly start scoring heroin or meth from a local dealer. Instead, my mother developed a jones for jigsaw puzzles. I donât know what it was about those things. I do remember Dad buying one for the three of us to piece together on New Yearâs Eve when I was little. For some reason, Momâs brain must have latched on to that particular memory for comfort after he was gone, the way my brain latched on to the idea that I was the man of the house now, that it was my time to step up and there was no room for feeling sorry for myself. Sheâd stay holed up in her room for hours, trying to fit the borders of different pieces together. And because I didnât know what else to do to make her feel better, I started picking up the cheapest ones I could find on my bike trips into town. It wasnât long before every surface in her bedroom was covered with cardboard fragments. Eventually, she had to expand the jigsaw operation to the living room and the kitchen table. To this day, she goes through even the thousand-piece ones like wildfire, so I still pick them up for her at the thrift store whenever I have a few extra bucks.
The thing is, even though Iâm the one most responsible for keeping my motherâs addiction alive, something inside me starts seething lately whenever she emerges from her bedroom in the late afternoon, having clearly just spent the entire day trying to piece back together a complex picture of dolphins or kittens or a tacky pastel cottage scene. Something grabs the steel bars around my lungs and heart and shakes them in frustration until I can hardly breathe. I never let it show on the outside, though. I know sheâs had a hard time. And hell would have to freeze over before Iâd allow my anger to escape, before Iâd ever allow myself to treat her the way my dad did toward the end.
Â
17
MOIRA
DAY 84: APRIL 2
Iâm not going to feel sorry for Boone Craddock.
I donât care what Deb says about him being a ânice boyâ back in the day.
Some things, like the thing from four years ago that I havenât let myself fully think about and remember yet, canât be forgiven.
Â
18
AGNES
DAY 83: APRIL 3
Sunday at my dad and Jameyâs house always = church.
Moira thinks Jameyâs a fascist for making us go, but I donât usually mind. Iâve only gone once or twice a month since Dad and Jamey got together, so Iâve pretty much learned to deal with it. Mostly, I just tune out during the sermon and use the time in the rickety pew to help with the twins. If theyâre behaving, I close my eyes and just think about stuff for a while.
The church we go to doesnât believe in using musical instruments, so all the songs are sung a cappella. The acoustics in the old building arenât great, and there are only about a dozen people in attendance on any given Sunday. Still, I love the sound of all our voices intermingling on songs like âPower in the Blood,â âWhat a Friend We Have in Jesus,â and âRock of Ages.â I hold the hymnal so Obi and Nevaeh can see it, too, not that they can read the music or the words.
When weâre done singing, a preacher Iâve never seen before approaches a lectern thatâs been set up in the front of the room. He has a big
Not a drug addict or an alcoholic, mind you. No sirree. She didnât knock back a few shots with her morning cup of coffee like my dad had, and she didnât suddenly start scoring heroin or meth from a local dealer. Instead, my mother developed a jones for jigsaw puzzles. I donât know what it was about those things. I do remember Dad buying one for the three of us to piece together on New Yearâs Eve when I was little. For some reason, Momâs brain must have latched on to that particular memory for comfort after he was gone, the way my brain latched on to the idea that I was the man of the house now, that it was my time to step up and there was no room for feeling sorry for myself. Sheâd stay holed up in her room for hours, trying to fit the borders of different pieces together. And because I didnât know what else to do to make her feel better, I started picking up the cheapest ones I could find on my bike trips into town. It wasnât long before every surface in her bedroom was covered with cardboard fragments. Eventually, she had to expand the jigsaw operation to the living room and the kitchen table. To this day, she goes through even the thousand-piece ones like wildfire, so I still pick them up for her at the thrift store whenever I have a few extra bucks.
The thing is, even though Iâm the one most responsible for keeping my motherâs addiction alive, something inside me starts seething lately whenever she emerges from her bedroom in the late afternoon, having clearly just spent the entire day trying to piece back together a complex picture of dolphins or kittens or a tacky pastel cottage scene. Something grabs the steel bars around my lungs and heart and shakes them in frustration until I can hardly breathe. I never let it show on the outside, though. I know sheâs had a hard time. And hell would have to freeze over before Iâd allow my anger to escape, before Iâd ever allow myself to treat her the way my dad did toward the end.
Â
17
MOIRA
DAY 84: APRIL 2
Iâm not going to feel sorry for Boone Craddock.
I donât care what Deb says about him being a ânice boyâ back in the day.
Some things, like the thing from four years ago that I havenât let myself fully think about and remember yet, canât be forgiven.
Â
18
AGNES
DAY 83: APRIL 3
Sunday at my dad and Jameyâs house always = church.
Moira thinks Jameyâs a fascist for making us go, but I donât usually mind. Iâve only gone once or twice a month since Dad and Jamey got together, so Iâve pretty much learned to deal with it. Mostly, I just tune out during the sermon and use the time in the rickety pew to help with the twins. If theyâre behaving, I close my eyes and just think about stuff for a while.
The church we go to doesnât believe in using musical instruments, so all the songs are sung a cappella. The acoustics in the old building arenât great, and there are only about a dozen people in attendance on any given Sunday. Still, I love the sound of all our voices intermingling on songs like âPower in the Blood,â âWhat a Friend We Have in Jesus,â and âRock of Ages.â I hold the hymnal so Obi and Nevaeh can see it, too, not that they can read the music or the words.
When weâre done singing, a preacher Iâve never seen before approaches a lectern thatâs been set up in the front of the room. He has a big
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