Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
It was petty, but anything I could do to piss her off was my intention.
I hated going to see her.
The only reason I did was to give my dad a break.
If it was up to me, I’d leave and never come back.
But my dad had a stupid moral compass and felt like it was his duty as a husband to take care of his wife.
“I don’t want to be called Detroit,” I repeated.
The name Detroit reminded me of my mother, and I couldn’t stand her.
Being called that would fucking suck.
Except the name didn’t get lost like I hoped it would.
It stuck, and for the next six years, I would be reminded of my mother every single time the name was spoken.
But it made Laney giggle, and how the hell was I supposed to get rid of a name that made her happy?
Three
Currently on the vodka diet. So far I’ve lost two days.
—Creole’s secret thoughts
CREOLE
Three Years Ago
I’d hated my son when he was first born.
Pregnant with my rapist’s baby, I’d hated him from the moment I saw him.
But it was okay, because my mom and dad, who knew everything since the moment that I’d finally acknowledged that I was pregnant, had loved him when I couldn’t.
I’d even named him Damon because he was my personal demon, but it would be socially unacceptable to name him Demon.
Nobody knew why I’d chosen his name, not even my mom, my greatest supporter.
It took me a really long time to love Damon, but now that I did, it only seemed fitting that he was dying.
I lay in the bed across from my son, whose breathing was shallow and choppy.
“I,” he breathed. “Don’t.” Another breath. “Want.” Ragged breath. “To die.”
I rubbed my son’s loose curls away from his face.
Everything about Damon was me.
None of his sperm donor was apparent in his looks or his temperament.
That was what made me start loving him. Those loose curls that looked so much like mine when I was a baby.
My mom’s hair, too.
All blond and wild, just like my boy.
“I know you don’t, baby.” I curled one of those blond locks around my finger. “But God wants you now. You don’t get to choose. I don’t want to lose you, either. I want you right here by my side where I can hug you and squeeze you forever.”
He smiled, but it was oh, so weak.
“You have Snuffins,” he replied.
Snuffins was a stuffed dog.
He’d wanted a real one, but we were gone too much to ever have a real dog.
His medical appointments and my traveling for work, it was never in the realm of possibility.
“I have Snuffins,” I agreed. “And any time that I need you and miss you, I’ll give him a squeeze.”
“Okay, Mommy.” He sounded so weak. “Will you hold me closer?”
The lump in my throat grew.
“Always, baby. Always.”
He took his last breath in my arms an hour and twenty-three minutes later.
I didn’t let him go for a long time.
So long that he started to stiffen in my arms.
It was only when my dad came in sans my mom—she was in the hospital for pneumonia fighting her own battle with cancer—that I finally had to let him go.
Six Months Later
Six months to the day that my son died, my mother decided it was her time to go as well.
I was numb as I watched my dad leave the room, giving us some space.
“Baby.” My mom’s weak voice filled the air. “Come here.”
I moved, not touching my mom, but not far away, either.
She lifted her hand and cupped my face, and I was proud of myself for not flinching.
“It’s time,” she whispered.
I knew.
“I know,” I replied.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I think you should tell Laney everything. She’d be more than willing to offer you support.”
I finally scrounged up the courage to hold my mom’s hand.
She squeezed it lightly, which for her was about all she had left.
“I’m ready,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of him until you get there.”
The tears that I’d barely been holding in check burst free of my iron control.
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
She was sorry for everything.
I knew.
“I love you,” I said. “It’s okay to go now.”
My mom smiled. “He’s so beautiful and happy.”
I turned my watery gaze toward my mom. “Who is, Mom?”
“Our boy,” she whispered. “He says he can’t wait to see you.”
I started to sob.
“He’s everything you ever wanted, baby. So good and pure. Be proud.”
Those were the last words she ever said to me.
Be proud.
But how could I be proud when I was so utterly lost without them?
Four
The best version of me you’ll ever see is the one eating ice cream.
—Creole’s secret thoughts
CREOLE
Two Years Ago
I sat in a hospital room, dressed fully in my flight attendant get-up, and stared at the doctors that’d just given us the news.
Laney was dead.