perfect teeth, and a smile that could light up a room. She’s wearing a blue button up shirt, and a black pencil skirt. She looks professional and important. I stand at the door, frozen—unable to speak for a minute.
“I’m looking for Oliver,” I manage to explain.
The woman smiles warmly, and turns back inside. “Oliver, there’s someone at the door for you.”
Oliver comes down the wooden stairs. “Can I help you with something?”
“Hey.” I’m trembling. “I brought you some soup. Frederick said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Frederick? Oh, uh. Okay, thanks,” he replies. He seems confused. The blonde woman has disappeared back into the house and we are standing at the door alone.
“Who was that?” I ask. I’m pale and dazed. I can barely breathe.
“That’s my wife, Tara,” he replies.
I feel as though I’m about to pass out, as I struggle to comprehend his words.
‘Wife’? What do you mean, ‘wife’?
I realize she looked familiar. She’s the Tara that Oliver just hired at work—only different. There’s something about her. She wears her hair differently, speaks a bit softer and carries herself with slightly less confidence.
“Tara from work?” I squeak. “Tara is your wife?”
“What do you mean, ‘from work’? Tara doesn’t work with me. Yes, she’s my wife. I’m sorry, who are you?” Oliver asks.
I cannot believe this is happening. I turn around and run. I run and I run. I’m crying so hard that I can barely see. The world is blurry. I keep running. I run until I can’t feel my feet and my thighs are burning and then I run even further.
I finally stop, exhausted and out of breath. I put my hands on my knees and lean over, consciously trying not to collapse.
I remember the exact moment I lost my mind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
If only you knew
How to read between the lines
Everyone says I was probably born crazy, like my mother, but I know that’s not true.
I am living in foster care.
My mother had lost custody of me when I was three because she was bipolar and a drug addict who, as much as she tried, could never get clean. No one wanted custody of me. My own grandmother wouldn’t even take me in. Her reasoning was that my mother was far too young when she had me at nineteen, and I was a mistake, so they had whisked me away into the system at a young age.
I am five years old, and my mother has figured out where I’m living with my foster family, the Evans, who are only concerned about the checks they were receiving for keeping me around. Mr. Evans is mean to me and Mrs. Evans lets him speak to me however he wants to, because if she steps in, he is mean to her.
Mom, who I haven’t seen since the day I was taken away, approaches me while I’m playing outside and starts screaming my name over and over. I turn around and see that she’s running towards me. I am young but I can tell that she’s having a manic episode, or she’s on drugs, or both. There’s something not right with her. She grabs me with both arms, and she’s crying. She holds me close—it is the first time she has ever hugged me. It almost feels good. I hear the neighbor shouting not to go with her, but suddenly we’re in a car. This isn’t her car. It was someone else’s car. I’m not sure how she got it. We’re driving. Tears are rolling down her face. Her torn, light pink tank top is soaked—with tears and blood. I don’t know if it’s her blood or not.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” I ask. I’m not afraid of her—after all, she is my mother.
“I love you, sweetheart. We are going to start a life together, just you and me, okay?” She smiles through her tears. I can see her shaking. We’re driving fast. Too fast, I think, but I don’t know for sure.
“What happened?” I ask. I’m not just referring to the blood on her shirt, either. I want to know what happened in the last two years that caused her to never come back for me,
“I’m looking for Oliver,” I manage to explain.
The woman smiles warmly, and turns back inside. “Oliver, there’s someone at the door for you.”
Oliver comes down the wooden stairs. “Can I help you with something?”
“Hey.” I’m trembling. “I brought you some soup. Frederick said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Frederick? Oh, uh. Okay, thanks,” he replies. He seems confused. The blonde woman has disappeared back into the house and we are standing at the door alone.
“Who was that?” I ask. I’m pale and dazed. I can barely breathe.
“That’s my wife, Tara,” he replies.
I feel as though I’m about to pass out, as I struggle to comprehend his words.
‘Wife’? What do you mean, ‘wife’?
I realize she looked familiar. She’s the Tara that Oliver just hired at work—only different. There’s something about her. She wears her hair differently, speaks a bit softer and carries herself with slightly less confidence.
“Tara from work?” I squeak. “Tara is your wife?”
“What do you mean, ‘from work’? Tara doesn’t work with me. Yes, she’s my wife. I’m sorry, who are you?” Oliver asks.
I cannot believe this is happening. I turn around and run. I run and I run. I’m crying so hard that I can barely see. The world is blurry. I keep running. I run until I can’t feel my feet and my thighs are burning and then I run even further.
I finally stop, exhausted and out of breath. I put my hands on my knees and lean over, consciously trying not to collapse.
I remember the exact moment I lost my mind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
If only you knew
How to read between the lines
Everyone says I was probably born crazy, like my mother, but I know that’s not true.
I am living in foster care.
My mother had lost custody of me when I was three because she was bipolar and a drug addict who, as much as she tried, could never get clean. No one wanted custody of me. My own grandmother wouldn’t even take me in. Her reasoning was that my mother was far too young when she had me at nineteen, and I was a mistake, so they had whisked me away into the system at a young age.
I am five years old, and my mother has figured out where I’m living with my foster family, the Evans, who are only concerned about the checks they were receiving for keeping me around. Mr. Evans is mean to me and Mrs. Evans lets him speak to me however he wants to, because if she steps in, he is mean to her.
Mom, who I haven’t seen since the day I was taken away, approaches me while I’m playing outside and starts screaming my name over and over. I turn around and see that she’s running towards me. I am young but I can tell that she’s having a manic episode, or she’s on drugs, or both. There’s something not right with her. She grabs me with both arms, and she’s crying. She holds me close—it is the first time she has ever hugged me. It almost feels good. I hear the neighbor shouting not to go with her, but suddenly we’re in a car. This isn’t her car. It was someone else’s car. I’m not sure how she got it. We’re driving. Tears are rolling down her face. Her torn, light pink tank top is soaked—with tears and blood. I don’t know if it’s her blood or not.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” I ask. I’m not afraid of her—after all, she is my mother.
“I love you, sweetheart. We are going to start a life together, just you and me, okay?” She smiles through her tears. I can see her shaking. We’re driving fast. Too fast, I think, but I don’t know for sure.
“What happened?” I ask. I’m not just referring to the blood on her shirt, either. I want to know what happened in the last two years that caused her to never come back for me,
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