Page 63 of Pieces Of You

I was thirteen years old, and I’d just found the paperwork of her diagnosis in her purse—dated almost a year earlier. I was furious at her for not telling me, and so I cried, and I screamed and cried some more. I’d never cried as much as I did at that moment because I couldn’t tell what was diminishing quicker: her body, her soul, or her will to live. And I couldn’t fucking comprehend why she was so adamant about fighting me on it.

In my mind, it was simple.

We needed to leave.

If we stayed, she would die. She needed to break the cycle she was caught in: Beaker would hit her, she would drink. Around and around and around she would go.

We needed to leave.

The next day, while Beaker was at work, we packed a bag each and hopped on a bus to nowhere.

I never imagined that “nowhere” would be here, at God knows what hour, talking to a boy’s mom about death. About loss. Aboutmourning.

I stay quiet, my hands behind my back. I don’t know what to say, how to react.

Tammy clears her throat, then asks, “How did—”

“Organ failure,” I cut in, looking up at her.

She watches me, her hands paused mid puzzle placement. Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t blink, doesn’t let them fall. Then, beneath the table, she kicks out the chair opposite her, and I accept the offered seat. If my telling her about my experience will help her in any way, then I’ll do it.

For her.

For Holden.

“Was there no treatment available?” she asks, pushing the half-complete puzzle to the middle of the table.

I scrutinize the image, try to make sense of it. I can’t. I choose my words carefully, not wanting to lie. “By the time I found out about the diagnosis, the only solution was a transplant.” I ignore the ache in my chest, the twisting in my gut when I add, “But they don’t hand out organs to alcoholics.”

“Oh, Jamie…”

“I tried to get her to go to AA,” I rush out. Because guilt is a bitch no matter how much time has passed.No matter how many times I asked her—begged her—my mom never attended a single meeting. That doesn’t mean I didn’t read up on it as much as I could, and I made it my mission for her to complete all twelve steps.

The first step is admitting that you’re powerless to alcohol and that it’s caused your life to become unmanageable.

Obviously, the transplant never came.

Because she never made it past the first step.

I fight back the tears, the raw emotion threatening to explode out of me.

“It’s not your fault, Jamie,” Tammy says, reaching across the table. She grasps my hand in hers, gently squeezing.And it’s such a simple act. Such a basic gesture, and yet… I look from our joined hands up to her face, where the remnants of her tears mar her beauty.

I cover her hand with both of mine, repeat her actions, and squeeze once. “It’s not your fault, either, Tammy.”

She lets out a sob so suddenly, I wasn’t expecting it. Wasn’t prepared. I don’t know what to say, how to comfort her. When my mom cried, it was always for Beaker. It was pathetic, so I ignored her. I don’t want to ignore Tammy, but I don’t know what else to do. “You’re right,” Tammy says, nodding as she wipes at the onslaught of tears. Her shoulders shake, and she repeats, “You’re absolutely right, Jamie.”

A throat clearing has my focus snapping to Holden standing in the doorway. I don’t know how long he’s been there, how much he’s heard. There’s an emotion in his eyes I can’t quite decipher, and then he’s stepping into the room, his body rigid. To me, he says, “Let’s go to bed.”

And so I stand, squeezing Tammy’s hand once more.“Goodnight,” I say and wait for Holden as he settles his hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“Night, Ma,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

Tammy reaches up, pats his hand. “I love you, too, baby.”

“Try to get some sleep, okay?” He drops a kiss on top of her head.

I force myself to look away, the shared moment too intimate for my eyes.

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