outside.
At their bedroom door I can hear my mother inside, sobbing softly. I know there is a photo by her vanity mirror of them when they first married, and it flashes into view in my anxious mind. She looks happy. He looks sullen. I don’t realize until years later that she is trying her best to conceal a slightly Rubenesque pooch to her belly that is my dear and distressed older sister in the very early stages of her life.
I lean against my mother’s closed bedroom door for a minute or two, listening to her snuffle against a pillow. I have nothing to say. I’m a kid and I have no words. There is the clink of a bottle as wine is poured into a glass.
I think I hear Josephine crying as well, in the room across the hall. I’m sure she’s heard the battle. I tap on my sister’s bedroom door but there is no answer. I call her name so she’ll know it’s me but she still doesn’t reply, so I crack the door. She is sitting, slumped over on the edge of her bed, her once beautiful auburn hair a dull, tangled mess covering her face, used tissues scattered around her small, delicate feet.
“Josie, are you okay?” I try tentatively.
Nothing.
“They’re not going to argue anymore. Dad left the house.”
Still nothing.
“Do you want dinner? Have you had any yet?”
“Don’ wan’ dinner,” she answers. Her voice sounds thick and slurred. I know she doesn’t drink, so this puzzles me.
I enter her room, sit next to her on the bed and put my arm around her slender shoulders. Usually when I do this she rests her head on meand we just sit until she feels a little better. But now her head only falls further forward.
She sniffs unhappily, takes a labored breath and begins to slowly talk.
“I know this’ll never leave me . . . I’ll have this crap for the res’ of my life. I can’t live on Luvox or Zolof’ and I’m not going into any . . . fucking men’al hospital . . .”
“I know, babe,” I reply, and I realize her unhappiness is not from the overheard argument. But there is really nothing I can say that will help when she is this low.
“. . . and I’ll never have a boyfrien’ or get married. Never have kids . . . all I ever wanted since I was li’l was to be . . . mommy . . .” her voice is heavier-sounding. I pull back to look at her but her face is still covered by her disheveled hair.
Her neck and arms feel clammy to me.
“I’m going to make coffee, do you want some?” I say to her.
“. . . coffee won’ help . . . took too many . . .”
“Took too many what?” I feel like I’ve missed something.
“. . . don’t worry . . .” Her voice is barely audible now. She is slowly falling forward. I pull her back upright. Her breathing is shallow.
“Took too many what, Jo?” I’m starting to get concerned.
“Mom’s osson . . .” she is slurring heavily.
“Mom’s what??!”
“Os . . . ossonn . . . ossa . . . ossaconen . . .” she can’t form words now. I look around and finally see the wineglass and beside it an empty prescription bottle. Alarmed now, I lay my sister down on her bed and grab the orange plastic container. OxyContin.
“Shit, Josie!!!!
I scream for our mother as I run to the phone, but I already know I’m too late.
Bobby
M y groin tickles. I feel a momentary surge of panic, thinking I could be peeing myself, such is the late hour. I look down to see if my crotch is dark with urine but it isn’t. It’s bright blue with modern technology. I meant to turn the damn cell phone off.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” asks Alice.
I hesitate, then retrieve the infernal machine and look at the caller ID. This ordinary cell phone has taken on extraordinary properties of late.
“It’s Doug.” I’m relieved to see it’s not Yahweh. “I’ll call him back. He’s a friend of mine. He should know better, I’m usually asleep by now.”
I look at the girl sitting next to me at the bar. It’s just not
At their bedroom door I can hear my mother inside, sobbing softly. I know there is a photo by her vanity mirror of them when they first married, and it flashes into view in my anxious mind. She looks happy. He looks sullen. I don’t realize until years later that she is trying her best to conceal a slightly Rubenesque pooch to her belly that is my dear and distressed older sister in the very early stages of her life.
I lean against my mother’s closed bedroom door for a minute or two, listening to her snuffle against a pillow. I have nothing to say. I’m a kid and I have no words. There is the clink of a bottle as wine is poured into a glass.
I think I hear Josephine crying as well, in the room across the hall. I’m sure she’s heard the battle. I tap on my sister’s bedroom door but there is no answer. I call her name so she’ll know it’s me but she still doesn’t reply, so I crack the door. She is sitting, slumped over on the edge of her bed, her once beautiful auburn hair a dull, tangled mess covering her face, used tissues scattered around her small, delicate feet.
“Josie, are you okay?” I try tentatively.
Nothing.
“They’re not going to argue anymore. Dad left the house.”
Still nothing.
“Do you want dinner? Have you had any yet?”
“Don’ wan’ dinner,” she answers. Her voice sounds thick and slurred. I know she doesn’t drink, so this puzzles me.
I enter her room, sit next to her on the bed and put my arm around her slender shoulders. Usually when I do this she rests her head on meand we just sit until she feels a little better. But now her head only falls further forward.
She sniffs unhappily, takes a labored breath and begins to slowly talk.
“I know this’ll never leave me . . . I’ll have this crap for the res’ of my life. I can’t live on Luvox or Zolof’ and I’m not going into any . . . fucking men’al hospital . . .”
“I know, babe,” I reply, and I realize her unhappiness is not from the overheard argument. But there is really nothing I can say that will help when she is this low.
“. . . and I’ll never have a boyfrien’ or get married. Never have kids . . . all I ever wanted since I was li’l was to be . . . mommy . . .” her voice is heavier-sounding. I pull back to look at her but her face is still covered by her disheveled hair.
Her neck and arms feel clammy to me.
“I’m going to make coffee, do you want some?” I say to her.
“. . . coffee won’ help . . . took too many . . .”
“Took too many what?” I feel like I’ve missed something.
“. . . don’t worry . . .” Her voice is barely audible now. She is slowly falling forward. I pull her back upright. Her breathing is shallow.
“Took too many what, Jo?” I’m starting to get concerned.
“Mom’s osson . . .” she is slurring heavily.
“Mom’s what??!”
“Os . . . ossonn . . . ossa . . . ossaconen . . .” she can’t form words now. I look around and finally see the wineglass and beside it an empty prescription bottle. Alarmed now, I lay my sister down on her bed and grab the orange plastic container. OxyContin.
“Shit, Josie!!!!
I scream for our mother as I run to the phone, but I already know I’m too late.
Bobby
M y groin tickles. I feel a momentary surge of panic, thinking I could be peeing myself, such is the late hour. I look down to see if my crotch is dark with urine but it isn’t. It’s bright blue with modern technology. I meant to turn the damn cell phone off.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” asks Alice.
I hesitate, then retrieve the infernal machine and look at the caller ID. This ordinary cell phone has taken on extraordinary properties of late.
“It’s Doug.” I’m relieved to see it’s not Yahweh. “I’ll call him back. He’s a friend of mine. He should know better, I’m usually asleep by now.”
I look at the girl sitting next to me at the bar. It’s just not
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