unearthed from the bowels of group therapy.
This is what residents of Full Circle Spa do. They practice warrior poses, seek enlightenment through meditative trances, pat a neighbor’s hand consolingly during group time, and reach out to their families for understanding. And we answer because we feel terrible if we don’t.
She begins her “aha moment.” As usual, I tune in and out, only catching fragments of this latest revelation: “I never really thought about how having an alcoholic father affected me. Youknow, I just kept telling myself he had a temper and a rough job, and he was functional, so it was hard to think that he was just like other people’s drunk dads . . .”
We talk about her dad a lot lately. How he used to hit her when he was drunk, how he used to belittle her if she did poorly in school, how her brothers had it worse because her dad would raise only strong men . This image of my mom, helpless against her dad’s tirades, only increases my pain. So I tune out for an even greater period of time, still managing to fill the gaps between her sentences with “yes” and “okay” and “I see.”
When I tune back in, she’s saying, “I loved finding you there, but I never told you that. I’m sorry that I didn’t, Jake. You kept reading all those books by Mark Twain. Remember?”
Apparently, we’ve fast-forwarded past her childhood and into mine. She’s talking about the summer I was ten. I used to stay up long after Ellie fell asleep and wait for her to come home from work.
She launches into her remembrance of those tender late-night reunions. I also privately return to that time. For the most part my recollection is hazy, but I remember what I can: her grilled-cheese sandwiches with a side of chips; sitting at the edge of the pool, feet submerged in cold water, warm plates against our thighs; her wine spilling onto the grout between thepavers. How I lied to make her feel better about her twelve-hour shifts, saying Ms. Sullivan made terrible dinners, even though Ms. Sullivan made excellent dinners. How, always, Mom’s cigarettes and wine wore the night away, leading us to the moment when she’d turn to me with glassy eyes and deliver a rant about my father.
This is a part I remember clearly: “Responsible men don’t run off to Florida with a coworker. Responsible men don’t leave a wife and children behind. Responsible men don’t break their vows. Jake—” She’d always freeze here, like a swimmer on a platform reconsidering a ten-meter dive. “Jake, promise me you’ll always be responsible. That you’ll never break your word. That you’ll never be like him .”
She’d put her hand over mine then, and nothing would loosen her grip but my pledge that I’d be different and better . I gave this pledge over and over again, until she slackened her hold, murmuring something like, “You love us. You love Ellie. You’ll never leave us.”
But I had left with false promises and reassurances, proving I was no different or better than my father.
Mom stops rambling. She asks, “Were those times just as special for you?”
The response is automatic. “Yes, Mom.”
“Good. Good.” The phone beeps, and she sighs apologetically. “I have to go now. Think about what I said, okay? It’s nice and warm here. A perfect weekend getaway.”
“Yeah, sure.” My voice is flattened by disinterest, and I hear the hurt in her good-bye.
Alone again, I slide down to the floor and rest my head on the mattress. I reach for Amber’s empty bottle until I feel it pressed against my skin: solid, cold, painfully empty of hope.
15.
That Hell o Kitty sticker reminds me o f b eing eleven, o f b eing o kay, o f a time when my mind had less racing th o ughts. Y o u remind me o f these things t oo .
Jessie
BEFORE. AUGUST.
Lola changed into her gray pajamas, pulling the bottoms up so quickly the elastic band snapped around the waist. “That’s bullshit,” she said, glancing at my
This is what residents of Full Circle Spa do. They practice warrior poses, seek enlightenment through meditative trances, pat a neighbor’s hand consolingly during group time, and reach out to their families for understanding. And we answer because we feel terrible if we don’t.
She begins her “aha moment.” As usual, I tune in and out, only catching fragments of this latest revelation: “I never really thought about how having an alcoholic father affected me. Youknow, I just kept telling myself he had a temper and a rough job, and he was functional, so it was hard to think that he was just like other people’s drunk dads . . .”
We talk about her dad a lot lately. How he used to hit her when he was drunk, how he used to belittle her if she did poorly in school, how her brothers had it worse because her dad would raise only strong men . This image of my mom, helpless against her dad’s tirades, only increases my pain. So I tune out for an even greater period of time, still managing to fill the gaps between her sentences with “yes” and “okay” and “I see.”
When I tune back in, she’s saying, “I loved finding you there, but I never told you that. I’m sorry that I didn’t, Jake. You kept reading all those books by Mark Twain. Remember?”
Apparently, we’ve fast-forwarded past her childhood and into mine. She’s talking about the summer I was ten. I used to stay up long after Ellie fell asleep and wait for her to come home from work.
She launches into her remembrance of those tender late-night reunions. I also privately return to that time. For the most part my recollection is hazy, but I remember what I can: her grilled-cheese sandwiches with a side of chips; sitting at the edge of the pool, feet submerged in cold water, warm plates against our thighs; her wine spilling onto the grout between thepavers. How I lied to make her feel better about her twelve-hour shifts, saying Ms. Sullivan made terrible dinners, even though Ms. Sullivan made excellent dinners. How, always, Mom’s cigarettes and wine wore the night away, leading us to the moment when she’d turn to me with glassy eyes and deliver a rant about my father.
This is a part I remember clearly: “Responsible men don’t run off to Florida with a coworker. Responsible men don’t leave a wife and children behind. Responsible men don’t break their vows. Jake—” She’d always freeze here, like a swimmer on a platform reconsidering a ten-meter dive. “Jake, promise me you’ll always be responsible. That you’ll never break your word. That you’ll never be like him .”
She’d put her hand over mine then, and nothing would loosen her grip but my pledge that I’d be different and better . I gave this pledge over and over again, until she slackened her hold, murmuring something like, “You love us. You love Ellie. You’ll never leave us.”
But I had left with false promises and reassurances, proving I was no different or better than my father.
Mom stops rambling. She asks, “Were those times just as special for you?”
The response is automatic. “Yes, Mom.”
“Good. Good.” The phone beeps, and she sighs apologetically. “I have to go now. Think about what I said, okay? It’s nice and warm here. A perfect weekend getaway.”
“Yeah, sure.” My voice is flattened by disinterest, and I hear the hurt in her good-bye.
Alone again, I slide down to the floor and rest my head on the mattress. I reach for Amber’s empty bottle until I feel it pressed against my skin: solid, cold, painfully empty of hope.
15.
That Hell o Kitty sticker reminds me o f b eing eleven, o f b eing o kay, o f a time when my mind had less racing th o ughts. Y o u remind me o f these things t oo .
Jessie
BEFORE. AUGUST.
Lola changed into her gray pajamas, pulling the bottoms up so quickly the elastic band snapped around the waist. “That’s bullshit,” she said, glancing at my
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