one noticed. Who forgot to get me food or do my laundry, sending me to school hungry and dirty. Who didn’t teach me about puberty, leaving the job to my school nurse, when I showed up in the clinic with stained clothes and tears streaming down my face.
Whoever these people knew, she must have died a long time ago. The day I was born.
“Are you drunk?”
Silas looks concerned, not angry, as he takes the wine glass from my hand. “Just a little,” I confess. “I’m sorry.”
He sits beside me on my mom’s bed, hugging my shoulders. “No need to apologize. It’s been a long day.”
“And it’s still not over,” I sigh. I grab his wrist and check his watch: 2:30. “The will reading is soon. Is everyone gone?”
“A few stragglers left,” he answers, getting up and pacing to Mom’s bureau. He picks up a photo—me, as a baby—smiles, and sets it back down. “Your mom was a wonderful woman, from what I’ve heard today.”
I grab the bottle of wine I’ve been drinking, the one I found in Mom’s closet, and take a long gulp. “Yeah? News to me.”
Silas raises an eyebrow at me. “How do you mean?”
“I mean,” I say, slowly, wiping my mouth, “that my mom was a really shitty mom.”
Sitting beside me again, Silas takes the bottle away and sets it on the floor. He’s suddenly very serious. “Parents make mistakes, Erin,” he whispers. “They’re only human.”
I shake my head at him. He doesn’t understand. How could he?
We sit there for a little while, listening to Aunt Jane’s voice sweeping through the house, bidding mourners goodbye. Silas helps me hide my drinking evidence when her heels start clicking up the staircase.
“Erin Caitlin?” She pokes her head into the room, then enters. “The lawyer just called—he asked if we could meet at his office at 3:30 instead of 3:00. Is that all right?”
I shrug. “I don’t have any other plans today, if that’s what you mean.”
She laughs, like I’ve said something witty. Her voice trails as she scans the room, striding from photo to photo on every surface. “Your mom sure loved photos,” she says, smiling. “This one is my favorite.” She holds up the photo Silas looked at earlier. “Did she ever tell you about it?”
I shake my head. It’s not a special picture—I’m a chubby five-month-old, in this hideous green dress with Christmas tree appliques along the border. Behind me is one of those Sears Portrait Studio backdrops, a snowy field with Rudolph galloping behind me. My smile is mostly spit.
“It was Christmas Eve, and Annie had this terrible fever. I offered to take you for your picture appointment, but she refused to stay home—it was your first Christmas, after all.” Aunt Jane sits on the other side of me. Mom’s brass bed-frame creaks under the weight of all three of us, shaking a little. “So I begged and begged her, I said, ‘Annie, just let me drive you, at least,’ and she finally agreed. “There she was, wrapped up in two coats and shivering and sniffling, but never letting on because she didn’t want you crying for your picture. And then, when it was over, I told her, ‘All right, Annie, let me take you home and make you some soup, I’ll watch Erin tonight,’ and she refused to leave. Not until you sat on Santa’s lap. Of course, you cried the entire time that man was holding you, but….” She laughs. “Oh, goodness, your mother. I don’t think
Whoever these people knew, she must have died a long time ago. The day I was born.
“Are you drunk?”
Silas looks concerned, not angry, as he takes the wine glass from my hand. “Just a little,” I confess. “I’m sorry.”
He sits beside me on my mom’s bed, hugging my shoulders. “No need to apologize. It’s been a long day.”
“And it’s still not over,” I sigh. I grab his wrist and check his watch: 2:30. “The will reading is soon. Is everyone gone?”
“A few stragglers left,” he answers, getting up and pacing to Mom’s bureau. He picks up a photo—me, as a baby—smiles, and sets it back down. “Your mom was a wonderful woman, from what I’ve heard today.”
I grab the bottle of wine I’ve been drinking, the one I found in Mom’s closet, and take a long gulp. “Yeah? News to me.”
Silas raises an eyebrow at me. “How do you mean?”
“I mean,” I say, slowly, wiping my mouth, “that my mom was a really shitty mom.”
Sitting beside me again, Silas takes the bottle away and sets it on the floor. He’s suddenly very serious. “Parents make mistakes, Erin,” he whispers. “They’re only human.”
I shake my head at him. He doesn’t understand. How could he?
We sit there for a little while, listening to Aunt Jane’s voice sweeping through the house, bidding mourners goodbye. Silas helps me hide my drinking evidence when her heels start clicking up the staircase.
“Erin Caitlin?” She pokes her head into the room, then enters. “The lawyer just called—he asked if we could meet at his office at 3:30 instead of 3:00. Is that all right?”
I shrug. “I don’t have any other plans today, if that’s what you mean.”
She laughs, like I’ve said something witty. Her voice trails as she scans the room, striding from photo to photo on every surface. “Your mom sure loved photos,” she says, smiling. “This one is my favorite.” She holds up the photo Silas looked at earlier. “Did she ever tell you about it?”
I shake my head. It’s not a special picture—I’m a chubby five-month-old, in this hideous green dress with Christmas tree appliques along the border. Behind me is one of those Sears Portrait Studio backdrops, a snowy field with Rudolph galloping behind me. My smile is mostly spit.
“It was Christmas Eve, and Annie had this terrible fever. I offered to take you for your picture appointment, but she refused to stay home—it was your first Christmas, after all.” Aunt Jane sits on the other side of me. Mom’s brass bed-frame creaks under the weight of all three of us, shaking a little. “So I begged and begged her, I said, ‘Annie, just let me drive you, at least,’ and she finally agreed. “There she was, wrapped up in two coats and shivering and sniffling, but never letting on because she didn’t want you crying for your picture. And then, when it was over, I told her, ‘All right, Annie, let me take you home and make you some soup, I’ll watch Erin tonight,’ and she refused to leave. Not until you sat on Santa’s lap. Of course, you cried the entire time that man was holding you, but….” She laughs. “Oh, goodness, your mother. I don’t think
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