was my father who turned my head.
“Well, I've only met Zach the one time, but I know Vinnie is a good man. Troubled, sure, but I've never known troubled to mean bad.”
Moe grabbed his glass of soda and raised it up to my father. “Truer words have never been spoken.”
The meal continued, with utensils clattering and dishes passing, and amidst it all, my mother looked over the table at me and said, “I get it, now.”
***
I said goodbye to Moe, and although he insisted it wouldn't be forever, I argued that he couldn't know for sure. Nothing is guaranteed, and I knew that to be true, more than ever, the moment I stepped into my room.
God, the silence had never been so loud.
My bones begged to be free of the ache in my chest, while knowing there was no escape. It had been six months since I last took a hit, and for the first time since the initial withdrawal had subsided, the itch to escape filled my mind. Lying in bed, the craving was so insatiable I began to wonder how it was someone went about finding a drug dealer, and I smacked a hand against my forehead.
“Stop it,” I scolded through gritted teeth. “Just stop it.” And I climbed out of bed.
In my months of recovery, I had searched for something else, something to grasp my attention and help me battle against the cravings. The only thing that had come close was exercise. The endorphins from working out always offered enough of a high to distract me. So, I grabbed my workout clothes, hanging over my closet door, and dropped my sweatshirt in the process. I cursed out of frustration as I picked it up, when something fell out of the pocket.
There, on the floor, was the envelope from Vinnie.
Somehow, between losing Jamie and having dinner, I had managed to push the letter to the back of my mind, but now, it stood front and center and I no longer craved the escape of cocaine.
I chose his words instead.
***
Hey, Sweetheart.
So, in case you haven't noticed, I've never been great at communicating. I'd rather smoke and get high than talk through my problems, and apparently, according to my shrink, this is a problem. My biggest issue though, is that I never know where to begin. But Dr. Travetti says a story should always start at the beginning, so buckle up, baby. It's gonna be a long one.
I was only five years old when my mom left us, and I watched her leave. I had been sick as hell the night she went, puking and with explosive diarrhea. It's crazy because I still remember it all so clearly. Like, I was only five, but I can remember the way her hand felt against my back. Her palm was cold on my clammy neck and I remember crying and asking her to make it stop, I was so fucking hot and tired, and she just kept saying, “Where the hell is your father?” I couldn't tell time yet, but I knew he was late, and there wasn't much that made her more angry than him being late. And finally, just as I Love Lucy came on, I puked all over the fucking couch, and she said, “I can't do this anymore.” So, she packed her shit, kissed me on the cheek, and told me she loved me. I cried so fucking much I threw up again, and I begged her not to go. She told me she had to, like she didn't have a choice, and then, she walked out the door and never came back.
Just like that.
Fuck. I've never told anyone that before.
I lied to everyone and told them I saw nothing. I said I had fallen asleep on the couch and didn't know she had gone. I was scared to tell the truth, because I thought they'd be mad at me for letting her leave, as if I could have stopped her or something. It's the first lie I can remember ever telling and I think it's the only one anyone has ever believed. It's like I got all my lying mojo out on that big one.
Anyway, it fucked me up big time. I mean, that would fuck anybody up, but I was really mad. I got into fights a lot. I was a fucking bully and picked on anyone weaker than me. Like, I remember this one kid from elementary school, Robert, who wore these glasses that looked