Page 94 of For Eva

I settled deeper into the couch, examining the pictures placed throughout the pages. I traced my finger over one of them, outlining my memory of that day on a particularly long stretch of road during the Black Widow Rising tour. Me and Eric on the bus, arms thrown around each other, singing what seemed like the entire KISS catalog using beer bottles as microphones.

Stratton and Eva (Holloway) Mitchell, who worked as part of Counting Backward’s management team, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, 1989.

As I read the caption, a warm sensation traveled up through my body and settled into my smile. That was before I’d known how bad things were. And how much worse they were going toget. When days and nights of drinking and bumps of coke to keep the band going seemed like par for the course in the world of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Not like the problem they would become.

I wondered how Simon had gotten the photograph. Had Eric saved it? I scanned the spread, taking in several other pictures of the band from that time period, sucking in a deep breath when I got to the one of Danny with a towel around his neck and his arm casually draped over Eric’s shoulder backstage after a show. My eyes quickly darted to other photos of Eric as he progressed through his solo career.

Maybe Eric didn’t hate me. He told Simon I’d saved his life. How good I’d been for the band. How good I’d been forhim. I supposed the first part was true, that the CPR had kept him alive, but it was strange to see the words in print. As far as I knew, it was the first time I’d ever been mentioned publicly in connection with that night. But how could he say I’d been good for him when I’d vanished without a trace? When I’d abandoned him?

At least my part in the article felt like some small sort of redemption for what I’d done. I was able to tell the world what a beautiful person Eric was. That he’d suggested I take the job with the band and he had believed in me, appreciated me, and trusted me. I’d left out the part about disappearing on him, only saying we’d lost touch over the years. The shame was too much. I could name the reason: that I craved something stable and I’d left that world behind to find it. But I’d ultimately let a friendship go in the worst way possible. I hadn’t even said goodbye.

All because…

I squeezed my eyes shut as the thought began to painfully claw its way to the front of my brain. I pressed my fingers into my forehead, pushing it back down into the shadowytomb where it had lived for nearly two decades. But this time, the thought felt stronger and the grave shallower, leaving me wondering how much longer I could keep it buried.

FIFTY-THREE

Eva

December 2008

“Idon’t understand why Santa is so mean to Rudolph,” Miles announced, stretching across the couch in his plaid pajamas as a commercial popped on the TV screen.

Drew snorted from the other side of the sectional. “Santa’s not even real, dork,” he said, not bothering to look up from his phone.

“Drew! Do not say that to your brother!” I picked up a throw pillow and tossed it across the couch.

Drew flipped his long blond bangs out of his eyes, his thumbs furiously working the buttons on his cell. “It’s true. Santa isn’t real, and Milesisa dork.”

“Call him that one more time and you lose your phone for a week.”

“I’m just saying Santa’s mean in this show,” Miles explained. “Iknowhe’s not real.”

I cocked my head. “You do?”

“Um, I’mtennow, Mom.”

My eyes widened, and I nodded slowly. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

“So you can ditch the different wrapping paper for our presents,” Drew said, the glow of the phone illuminating his face as a wide grin spread across it. “We know they’re all from you.”

As Miles started giggling and rolled off the sofa onto the floor, I couldn’t help but smile. If there was one thing my boys could agree on, it was how enjoyable it was to make fun of me.

Rudolph’s flashing red nose reappeared on the screen, and Miles turned onto his stomach, chin in his hands, as the band of misfits made their way through a snowstorm. It was dark in the room, except for the television and the colorful display of Christmas tree lights dancing on the walls.

Where had the time gone? In less than three weeks we would celebrate our first Christmas without Aaron in the house. Some days that hit me harder than others. Grief was strange like that—never quite linear, no matter how much I wanted it to be. Sometimes the ache in my chest lifted, and it felt like years had passed since he’d left. Other times it was so heavy, I could’ve sworn he’d just told me yesterday he wanted a divorce.

The phone trilled from the kitchen. The home phone—the one I always forgot we had because I used my cell for everything. Sure it was someone trying to convince me to switch auto insurance companies, I decided to let it go to voicemail.

And then it rang again.

“Mom, are you gonna get that? It’s super annoying,” Drew said, still focused on his phone.

“Your mouth is going to get you grounded for the entire Christmas break,” I warned as I pushed myself up from the couch and walked into the kitchen.

I flipped on the overhead light and plucked the cordless receiver off its base to see a 310 area code displayed on the screen.

Los Angeles? Could it be Denise…calling from some random number?

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