New York: Allie's War, Early Years

Walking inside, I heard the television.

I shut the door behind me loudly.

"Mom?" I headed for the sound of the t.v., dragging the bag of donuts and coffee I'd grabbed from the street vendor in front of the courthouse with me. Passing the dining room, I saw that she'd closed the drapes, which was strange, too. Mom liked to watch the birds, even in the fog.

"Mom, you forgot the garbage again," I said. Pausing, I raised my voice. "Tuesday, Mom. Remember? Every Tuesday. It never changes..."

No answer.

A prickle of fear touched my spine.

"Hey, Mom...I don't have a lot of time. I promised I'd come by, so I'm here...but I can't stay. I just wanted to make sure you were up. Aunt Carol's coming, remember...?"

When she didn't answer again, I felt my nerves worsen. Moving faster down the hall, I stepped out into the living room, stopping when my eyes met a shock of skin sprawled on the paisley print couch.

"...Oh," I said.

Sighing, half in relief and half in irritation, I crossed the remainder of the room, kicking aside an empty bottle that at least partly accounted for the smell from the faux-Indian carpet. Sitting on the squishy couch I'd loved as a kid, I sank so low I nearly got dumped on the floor. I set down the coffee cup I had surfed to safety, and dropped the crumpled bag of donuts to the carpet. Sighing again, I leaned over to tap my mother's bare back. The skin there was smooth and somehow younger than the rest of her, marked with tan lines from working in her garden.

"Mom? What are you doing?" I looked at the clock in exasperation. "I have to go."

I looked around at the open photo album, the crushed cigarette butts that she'd sworn up and down just two days ago that she no longer smoked, the faded, Mickey Mouse drinking glass that had once been Jon's. I counted five butts in the plastic Waikiki ashtray with the hula girl painted on it, and at least two more in the bottom of Mickey's glass.

The only thing I didn't look at was the television, where the familiar voice of my father could be heard amid kid laughter and cheers.

The birthday video.

I had been four. That was right before dad's MS had been diagnosed, before he started losing weight, before he gave me the ceramic dolphin music box and promised he would never leave me. The day after he died, I smashed the box to a million pieces on the curb outside of our house. The next day, I moved out. I had been seventeen.