Page 10 of Mistaken Identity
“No.”
And it would continue to be a no.
The only reason I had the Detroit Lions shirt on was because I knew that seeing it on my body physically made my mother angry.
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.
