Read Objects of My Affection for Free Online Page B

dealer, at least so far as I know.
    That’s the problem: What do I know? Nothing.
    And what’s up with Samantha’s mother telling her not to write my son back? What—does he have drug cooties? Will her precious child catch something by mere association with Ash? He’s in recovery, for crying out loud! That seems to me an occasion to reach out. If she were here, I’d give her a piece of my mind. Not to get on a soapbox, but something is desperately wrong with a society in which we care only about our own without regard to others—especially others whose mothers have driven your daughter places and bought her Taco Bell and clapped for her in school plays, and those sorts of things you do for your child’s friends.
    It takes effort to smooth down my hackles before speaking. “He didn’t mention that he wrote to you.” I can’t figure out how to ask what the letter said without prying—and I don’t care if I do, I just don’t want her to shut me out. “Did he ask you in the letter to write him back?”
    She nods.
    â€œDo you want to?”
    â€œI’m not sure.”
    I can’t stand it anymore. “What did he say in the letter? If that’s too nosy, you don’t have to answer.”
    â€œMostly hi. And he misses me. And he’s sorry.”
    â€œSorry …” I say. “Did he do … um …” I’m asking if my son did something awful to this girl, and desperately hoping I don’t get an answer.
    â€œSorry in general, I guess. For messing up his life so bad?”
    As much as I’m relieved, I’m also irritated. She gets a sorry? The boy once held an airsoft gun to my head! He stole money from me and punched holes through my walls and lied and … ugh … so much for me not showing any bitterness.
    â€œI’m glad he wrote you,” I say. “And I can’t tell you to write him back because it’s against the mom code for me to suggest that you disobey your mother.”
    Samantha picks at the polish on her nails. “But you want to.”
    â€œI want my son to get better. If I knew how to make that happen,he wouldn’t be where he is right now. If he wrote to you, I’m guessing he felt it was important to his recovery.”
    â€œForget my mom. I’m writing him back.”
    I put my arm around her to give her a quick squeeze. “Look, sweetie, do what you think is right.”

chapter three
    M arva is reclining in a chair that looks like a big, fuzzy question mark, having an afternoon smoke in the mudroom. After allowing her enough time to puff down to the filter, I walk in, only to see her lighting a second cigarette off the first.
    â€œAnother one? I was hoping we could get started.”
    She blows a smoke ring. “Give a woman a break here. This is the only vice I’ve managed to hang on to. Let me enjoy it.”
    A break. Please. Her coffee breaks, lunch breaks, bathroom breaks, and now cigarette breaks have frittered away the entire morning. Instead of being busy throwing things out, all I was able to do was strategize a plan for how I’ll proceed, should I ever be allowed to actually do my job. At one point, bored—and in desperate need of a shot of motivation—I ran to the office supply store to buy a calendar. The first thing I did after posting it on the bungalow wall was circle the deadline date: May 15. I wrote the number of days left on each date square, counting backward to today. Then I drew a big, fat X through yesterday, Day 52. I’m starting to worry there may be another X on the calendar before I clear so much as a scrap of paper from the house.
    Still, I stay upbeat and don’t even wave away the waft of cigarette smoke coming at me so as not to insult Marva. “There’s lots to do today,” I say, “so we need to get to it!”
    â€œYou sound just like my son,” she replies in a tone that makes it