17. Nicole

I thought I knew everything about my mother until I started reading her journals. You can know a person your whole life but never really know them. Because they only have to show you what they want you to see. I didn't know she felt insecure as a mother. I didn't know she was afraid she'd raise us wrong, make a mistake that would permanently damage us in some way or another. I didn't know she blamed herself for my addiction. And I didn't know how much she truly loved us. She doesn't write about the night of June 15, 1999. She alludes to it, but the entry is hieroglyphically cryptic. She refers to it as the night everything changed, the night that made her question every moment of her life that led up to it, the night that shook her faith, and, most terrifying of all, the night she realized monsters walk among us.

I pick up my mug of coffee from the kitchen table and take a drink. It's lukewarm now but I don't mind because I just want the caffeine—another drug to distract my brain from craving a much stronger one. My hand trembles as I set the cup back down and flip another page. I read every word deliberately because I know each one was written for a reason, whether it was hastily scribbled down or not. Mom's journals are sometimes like a word dump as though she's just trying to get it all out. Other times, it's poetic like she's taking her time, making sure it's just right. A few lines jump out at me.

Even if I could dig a hole deep enough to reach the center of the earth, I still couldn't bury this.

I always tried to do the right thing but somewhere along the way, it all went wrong.

You don't believe in monsters until you're living with one... and even then, you don't believe until you're looking in the mirror, realizing you've become one of them.

I notice there are pages missing, specifically around June 15. The frayed edges caught in the metal spiral are evidence of written truths tossed away. Why'd she even write them down to begin with? Perhaps it was cathartic to tell someone her story, even if it was just a blank page. I can understand that. There are many truths that I have written only for myself. Because some stories aren't meant to be shared.

The front screen door squeaks open. I lift my head to find Beth walking in and kicking off her shoes. Her face is flushed and puffy, and her bloodshot eyes look like baseballs with red stitching. She's been crying, and I'd ask her what's wrong but I'm still mad at her for calling me a junkie and a crackhead. It's true but that doesn't mean she should say it.

"How was your walk with Lucas?"

I study her face, trying to gauge her expression. Did she tell Lucas about Emma? She said she wouldn't unless we found something more concrete, but I'm not sure I believe her.

"Fine." She retrieves a glass from a cupboard and fills it with tap water. "And no, I didn't tell him about Emma," she says, not looking at me.

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to." She tips the glass back and drinks almost half of it.

It's nearly impossible to hide anything from Beth. She was the first one to even suspect my addiction. I think she knew before me, if that makes any sense. I thought I was just having fun and didn't realize I wasn't until the chase became my whole life and the high was just a means to an end. My mother knew next, but it took her longer. Parents have a blind spot for their children.

Beth takes a couple of steps toward the kitchen table, eyeing the spirals laid out before me. "Find anything interesting?" she asks.

Interestingisn't the right word, so I'm not sure how to answer her. I'd use that word to describe a new fact I discovered. Like when I learned that three days after death, the enzymes that help break down a person's food begin to eat their own body. Ithought that was interesting. These journals are different though, and I don't think there's a word to describe them.

"No," I say. "But some of the pages are missing around... that night."

Beth raises a brow. "Did she tear them out?"

"She must have."

I consider offering her a journal to read but Mom left them to me. I didn't get much, just these and her old car that I'm not sure even runs anymore. If Mom wanted anyone else to read them, she would have split them up, given a third to each of us, but she didn't. So, they're mine.

"Maybe they're around here somewhere." Beth looks at all the boxes in the living room—some opened, some closed, some empty, some full.

"Yeah, maybe," I say, stacking up the journals. I need a break from them. I fell asleep reading her words and when I woke up this morning, I returned to them.

"Is Michael back?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"Should we start without him?"

"Actually, I need to go in for my..." I pause, searching for the right word, "Treatment?" I'm not sure that's the right one either. I'm still taking opiates, synthetic ones, just in smaller doses. The doctor is hopeful that I'll only need it for a year. But I wonder, will I be able to live without the methadone too?

"Can you take me?" I add.

I don't want to ask her for help, because I know she grew tired of helping me a year ago. I can't blame her though. I've always had a tendency to look for the highs in life, even before the car accident. In my twenties, it was weed, alcohol, and cocaine, whenever I could get my hands on it. But I was functioning, until I got a taste for something stronger—much stronger than myself. It was the oxy the doctors prescribed. They kept me on it for far too long, and then they cut me off cold turkey without a plan in place. So, I made a plan of my own. Get high or die trying. And I almost did many times. But that didn't stop me. Addiction is like having your arm in a vise. You can't loosen the grip. You can't pull away. You just have to learn to live with it.

Addiction has made me do the worst things to the people I love most—Beth being one of them. So, like I said, I can't blame her for no longer wanting to help me, but I can still hate her for it. Maybe that's the addiction talking. I really don't know anymore.

"Sure," Beth says. Her voice is soft, and the word comes out slow like she had to force it out. "Let me change quick," she adds.

Let me change quick... I wish that applied to more than just outfits.