Page 54 of Taste of Addiction

Unfolding the sheet of paper, I am thankful to see that the words are still legible after all these years.

Dear Angie,

By the time you read this, you will have already entered into the most exciting time of your life—the college years. It is not a natural part of life to go through it without a mom by your side. But you are strong. You are beautiful. You are made to persevere.

Ever since you were a little girl, you always doubted yourself. Did you know that you didn’t take your first steps as a baby until you were close to seventeen months? I never wanted to compare you to your brother, but it was very clear early on how different you both were. You always wanted to make sure you could do something perfectly before taking the risk of failing. So, while James was walking and stumbling at a year, you were waiting until you were older. And when you finally did take those steps, you were so steady on your feet that you could easily walk on cement without giving me a heart attack that you were going to fall.

Why am I telling you this? Because I hope you realize now that it is okay to fall. Falling is a part of life’s journey. Please do not walk into the trap of being so rigid (and stubborn) with blinders on that you miss out on your true talents. What brings you joy is what will bring you future sustainable success. Please do not set out to only follow Plan A, when Plan B or Plan C may open some amazing doors.

I am sorry I cannot be there with you and watch you shine. I am sorry that you have to go through this life without the love of a momma who always has your back. Let me live in your heart and in your memories. But only if you are able to live your life in the forefront and not allow the past to overtake the present.

I love you so much and even a little bit more,

-Momma

My tears fall onto the words, darkening the lined paper with dots. Momma has always been insightful and wise. And even over a decade ago, she could see me. See my stubborn nature. See my need for perfection. She was right then. And if she were here today, she would still see that her words are exactly what I need to hear in this exact moment.

From the thermos, I dump out a pack of chewing gum, the front page of a local newspaper, a hair barrette, and five family photos. It is painful to look at the pictures, knowing that so much has changed since they were taken. I seal up everything into the container and carry my supplies back to the car.

I walk up the stairs to the wraparound porch and meander along the warped wooden planks, dragging my feet and kicking up peeling paint. I can’t tell what I am sadder over—the house no longer being mine or the condition that it is in now. I pull at the front door and find that it is locked. I walk around the side of the house where there are vines and other plants growing up on some white lattice platforms. I look up and see my bedroom window open and decide that this is my point of entry.

I wish I could say that this is familiar territory for me—sneaking in and out of my bedroom window—but it’s not. I was Goody-Two-Shoes Angela. I was the model daughter and the girl at school who would never cause problems. While I had a voice, I never raised it or deliberately compromised the image that was instilled in me from early on. I was not confrontational.

But now, I am different. Life hardens the heart that way. Makes me know that bad things happen to the most amazing people. That no matter how perfect you can walk along a path, you can still fall and hurt your heart, even if there is nothing obvious in the way.

I look up at the height I need to climb in order to gain access. It’s not so bad. I place my right foot into the slot and hoist my body up a few feet. My hands burn from gripping the warped wood, but I keep my eyes on the prize and keep on climbing. When I get to the roof that covers the porch, I crawl across it. The sound of breaking shingles echoes in my ears as I put further strain on the already-needs-replacing roof.

I remove the frayed screen and pull the window up farther, before climbing through feetfirst. I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting by coming back here. I definitely wasn’t planning on going inside the house. But now that I am here, I don’t want to stay. All of the good and bad and happy and ugly memories flood through me—highlighting everything I have lost.

I look around my empty room and see dust in the corners. The carpeting is ratty looking, and the smell of mold and stale cigarette smoke puffs out of the fibers with each step. My dull headache that never really got better from this morning builds over the nasty air I am forced to inhale. And what good is it to work my way through a house that is definitely no longer a home? I don’t belong here. Not anymore, at least.

I get down the same way I arrived and back away from the front porch, saying a silent goodbye to the house. When I get into the car, I break down. Will this blanket of sadness ever go away? Am I destined to carry this burden for the rest of my life?

I drive to the local flower shop and pick up two bouquets of flowers—red roses for Momma and white roses for James. On the other side of town, situated on the hillside that has a beautiful border of trees, is the cemetery. I take the winding road up the brick pathway and find the row where half my family is buried. I park the car and carry the roses and time capsule through the grass until I find the neighboring headstones. I sit down between the two and place each bouquet in the corresponding locations.

“I could really use you both right now.” I lay my head back and look up at the sky. “I really messed up my life, and while I would like to pass on the blame, it really is my own fault. I just”—my words catch in my throat—“can’t seem to get over the loss. I doubt I ever will.”

I don’t visit here enough, but the few times I have been back to town, I always stop. It is peaceful. I stretch out my legs and watch as the sun starts to hover closer to the horizon.

How can I ever be happy when you both are not here with me?How can I find joy in my own life when your lives ended way too soon?

It is guilt holding me back. Guilt for being here on earth when they are not. Guilt for trying to make my life be more than just the pain, when they had to deal with so much themselves. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that I lived and they died. Why me? Why was I spared? And for what purpose? Just to fail again… Such a fucking waste.

When the cold air starts to make my teeth chatter, I sit back up and pull out the letter meant for James. Using my fingers, I dig up the earth, place the note into the soil, then arrange the grassy patch on top. I situate the bouquet and brush off his stone from the dusting of dirt and dry grass. I clean off momma’s stone and then make my way back to the car.

It is five o’clock, and I still have two more stops to make. I start the engine. Then I travel up and around on the loop to exit to the main road. It only takes me ten minutes to get to the apartment complex. I find a free “guest” spot and park.

This may be one of my horrible ideas, but if I leave without making a valid attempt, I will most likely regret it. That’s the thing about regrets, though—it usually takes time for them to occur. And being five hours away in Portland makes it harder to visit on a whim.

My fingers tremble as I ring the doorbell for the unit with the label of 5C. I have never been here before. The entire complex is only about ten years old. After a minute of waiting, I’m turning to walk back to the car when the door gets thrown open. I turn on my heel to look at the man standing in the frame. A man I barely recognize or even know anymore.

“Angela?” His voice is rough and broken. He sounds like he has chronic laryngitis.

I plaster a fake smile on my face. “Hi, Dad.”

His eyes squint, and he stumbles into the door. “What you doin’ here? Thought ya said there ain’t nothin’ here for you.”

There isn’t. Not anymore at least. “I wanted to dig up the time capsule at the house.”

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