Read My Soon-To-Be Sex Life for Free Online

all that Mom had disclosed. “Mr. He-Really-Could-Be-A-Member-Of-The-Addams-Family Adams ? But he’s so hairy, and pervy, and there’s that whole restraining order with his ex issue. Screw, owning up to your past, I don’t care what step you is working on. I am no longer an active participant in this heinous conversation.” Mom looked like she had a lot more to say, and as we did have fifteen minutes left to my weekly visit, I took precautionary measures.
    I plugged my ears. “La, la, la, I can’t hear you…”
    â€œOh, Charlie, you’re so funny,” Mom gushed - unfortunately I could still hear every word she said. “Why haven’t I noticed it before? I gave birth to a beautiful, comedian baby.” She gave a trill of laughter.
    A freaking trill . Mom had snorted, squealed like a pig, belched, giggled, and thrown the odd slap-happy conniption while watching a movie, but trilling was new. The idea of Mom needing help to get beyond her reliance on a chemical buffer from the world – I was okay with that. But the fake laughter? The permagrin?
    I didn’t like it.
    â€œTime’s up.” I lowered my hands, but not my guard. This shiny-and-new-mommy made me nervous. The last time I saw her like this was a week after dad’s funeral when she locked herself in the bathroom with a forty of rye and a bottle of sleeping pills. My chest tightened as the image resurfaced and along with it the desperation, the fear.
    The betrayal.
    I hadn’t been enough for Mom to want to live. Not then, and obviously not ever. What if she couldn’t go on without the drugs? What if she tried to leave me again?
    Mom’s face softened as she studied me, her eyes misted. “I love you, Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. You’re my sweet, sweet girl.”
    Ugh. Where was a shank when you needed one? What was this place called Rehab? “I gotta go.” I stumbled from Mom’s room. “I’ll see you next week.”
    Motivational posters lined the walls of the optimistically bright hallway, black plastic frames of sentimental graffiti.
    I couldn’t escape fast enough. I didn’t even give Mom a chance to say good-bye. Was I a bad person? A bad daughter? Is that why dad didn’t come home that night?
    In a flash, I am ink.
    A red wash over the frame gives the graphic a violent feel.
    A coat is wrapped around my thin nightgown, arms wrapped around my chest. I stand on the front porch as my mother slips mutely to the concrete. Then rocks herself back and forth, keening like a dog.
    â€œTake the kid inside,” a police officer orders. “She doesn’t need to see this.”
    But it’s too late. I have seen. I have heard. My father is dead, and so is the unknown woman in the passenger seat beside him.
    I bite the hands that reach for me, drawing blood.
    â€œWhat floor?”
    The images are so life-like I can taste the copper of his blood on my tongue.
    â€œI said, ‘What floor?’ Did you hear me? What floor do you want?”
    The question comes from a guy around my age. Tall, cute, and wearing a faded Zeppelin T-shirt over a long-sleeved hoodie, a black fisherman’s hat pulled low over his ears, his index finger hovering over a panel of glowing moons.
    I blink and the world comes into focus.
    My pulse knocked in my throat. Okay, which floor did I need?
    Blinking hard, I stared at the blur of people streaming past the glass windows. Why did they have glass elevators in a hospital anyway? What if someone you loved died and you wanted to have yourself a nice private little meltdown on the way to the morgue? What if you just needed a moment before facing the world?
    â€œHey,” his eyes narrowed, “you’re not going to pass out are you?”
    The floor lurched beneath my feet.
    â€œI don’t know.” I swayed. “Am I?”
    I felt weird. My legs went numb. I staggered.
    He caught me with a grunt,