Page 71 of Mirror Image

“Whoa! Slow down there before you choke on a piece of fruit!”

By the time I’ve caught my breath, there are tears running down my cheeks—though I couldn’t say if they were because of the little asphyxiation episode or emotion. Both, I suppose.

“I’m sorry to upset you, but I thought you should know,” she says as she leans over and puts a hand on my forearm.

“When did this happen?”

There’s an awkward pause before she replies, “A few weeks ago.”

I sit up so abruptly that I actually drop the glass this time, sending ice cubes and orange slices sliding across the concrete balcony floor. “Damn it!”

“Jenn—”

“Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?”

“Dad didn’t think it was a good idea. Not right then, anyway. And it’s not like there was a service or anything. She was cremated and buried with Lito and Lita.”

At this I nearly start choking once more. “Are you fucking kidding me? This just keeps getting better and better!”

“Jenn—”

I shake my head harshly. “No. No, no, no. I can’t believe you all would do this—keep it from me and then . . . Why? Why would you disrupt their graves to put her there?” My hand flies to my mouth as I realize what else that means. “Oh! Oh, no, you put her there with Jess! How could you do it, Stef?” I demand.

She stands up so that we’re eye to eye, her dark eyes locked onto mine. She holds them for a beat before responding. “Because it was what Lito and Lita wanted.”

She is completely calm in the face of my incredulity, releasing the words slowly, one by one, as if I need the time to process the complete thought.

She’s not wrong.

The huff of air that escapes me isn’t so much an exhalation as the involuntary response of someone who’s just been punched in the gut. My finger goes instinctively to the elastic hair tie around my wrist, and I give it a quick snap. It has the desired effect, forcing me to focus and not allow my emotions to take over. I have to look at this rationally.

Of course, it was what my grandparents wanted. In spite of everything, they never stopped loving their only daughter.

And, really, how many times in my own practice have I seen variations on this same story? Parents unwilling to give up on a child who had fallen prey to addiction. Even if it meant the rest of the family was destroyed in the process.

Not that our family suffered—quite the opposite. Unbeknownst to my mother, by walking out the door and taking her vices with her, she spared us all years of suffering the direct fallout of her drugs and booze and men. Or maybe I’m wrong; maybe she did know. Maybe abandoning us was the last good thing she could do for us.

Whatever reason she did what she did, she’s gone now, and by rights, I should at least try and afford her the same grace I would a stranger in the same situation.

The rage leaves me, and I drop back down onto the couch, both deflated and defeated, though I’m not sure why the latter.

“She knew, then, about my sister? When it happened, I mean?”

Stef shrugs and sits again too. “I don’t know, mama. I’m sure she did, but I don’t know when or how. It was everywhere at the time, so, yeah, I’d guess she found out not too long afterward.”

And still she didn’t come back. But then, why would she? And what would I have done if she had? I don’t know the answer to that—because I never knew her.

Everything I’ve ever been told about this woman came from my grandparents, who never spoke a word against their child, always framing her absence through the lens of her illness. As a psychiatrist, I understand that addiction is a disease, not a choice. But that knowledge doesn’t blunt the sting. Knowing why someone leaves doesn’t make it hurt any less when they do.

And then there are those few gauzy images—snapshots so faint they might just as easily be artifacts of my imagination as real memories. Maybe that’s part of why I’ve never wanted children of my own: growing up in the crater someone leaves behind is enough to make you swear you’ll never risk creating one.

This news changes nothing.

My mother was a ghost to me long before her death.

The phone barely rings once before he picks up.

“Are you mad at me?” Gabe asks by way of greeting.