Parents
I'm suddenly mad at him. Mad at him for drinking. Mad at him for smoking. Mad at him for taking off on me. Mad at him for not being my father.
In the photograph, Aunt Donna is very, very pregnant. My mother is not. I look up at my mom and she is crying—silently, with her hand over her mouth. I just make it to the bathroom before I lose my breakfast, my lunch and my mind.
En la fotografía, mi tía Donna está embarazada, muy embarazada. Mi madre no lo está. Miro a mi madre que llora en silencio con una mano sobre la boca. Llego al baño justo antes de vomitar el desayuno y el almuerzo, y antes de perder completamente la razón.
I open the top drawer, my heart pounding. A row of file folders, alternating blue and gray, all neatly labeled. Clippings, Documents, Letters...I stop, about to pull out the Letters file, but then I notice the next file: Lou. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I shiver. I raise my hand to life out the file and, just as my fingers touch it, I hear my mother's key in the lock.
Every hand I shake, I look into the person's face and wonder what they know. It didn't say in the announcement in the paper. Maybe they think my dad had a heart attack while he was driving. I don't want anyone to know. Because it's not like we really know for sure. I don't want people talking about him and thinking he did something when nobody knows for sure that he did.
