Prologue
Death changes everyone.
It changes the way you think, the way you feel, and the way you live your life. Sometimes it makes you thankful for what you have, but more often than not, it makes you regret the things you've lost.
I'm eighteen years old and I've spent the better part of five months in a black hole that I can't seem to claw my way out of. Every breath I take, every moment in time I experience, is another reminder that the one person who should be here with me, guiding me and supporting me, is gone.
It's Mother's Day, five months since I lost her, since I lost myself to the memories and no longer recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror. I woke up this morning knowing what I need to do but hating it so much I want to scream and rage at the unfairness of it all. The fact that I'm still not one hundred percent sure about my decision should be a sign that I'm not ready to do this. I have no other choice, though. There is no other place I need to go, no other person I want to be with.
The sky is overcast and there is a chill in the air. It's the perfect type of weather for my mood and my plans. I roll out of bed and throw on a ratty pair of shorts and one of her shirts that I kept. I slide my feet into flip-flops and drive to the Panera Bread by my house. I order her favorite: a cinnamon crunch bagel, toasted with butter, and a large hazelnut coffee with cream, no sugar, and tell the cashier it's to-go. As she hands me my order, I hear the cashier next to her wish another customer "Happy Mother's Day." It takes everything in me not to turn and tell her to f**k off. All around me are mothers and daughters dressed for morning church services or casually clothed for a day of shopping together. The smiles on their faces and the laughter in their voices brings my mood down another few notches and forces me to swallow past the lump in my throat. I want to hate all of them. Me, the person voted "Best Friend to Everyone" and "Most Likely to Succeed in Making Everyone Laugh" in high school wants to walk up to complete strangers in a bagel shop and throw my cloud of doom over them by reminding them to cherish what they have because one day they might not have it anymore. At some point, without any warning, it can be ripped right out of their hands in the blink of an eye.
As more and more Mother's Day greetings fill the air around me, I fight the urge to scream at everyone. I snatch the bag with the cinnamon bagel in it, grab the coffee cup from the counter, and curse loudly when some of the scalding hot liquid splashes out of the drinking hole in the lid and onto my hand.
With a glare at the happy, smiling patrons, I exit Panera Bread, get into my car, and make the dreaded fifteen-minute drive to the cemetery so I can spend Mother's Day with my mom, a cup of coffee, a bottle of pills, and a straightedge razor.
Chapter One
Ten months later.
"Have you thought about going to a support group, Addison? I really think speaking to others who are dealing with the same hardships as yourself would benefit you tremendously."
I stare, unblinking, at my therapist as she continues with her spiel. She reminds me so much of my mother that it almost takes my breath away. The first time I walked into her office, the smell of Venezia Perfume assaulted my senses, and I almost turned and ran out of the room. I've never known of anyone else to wear that perfume, except for one person. My doctor has the same hairstyle, the same sense of humor, and gives the same type of no-nonsense advice. I've been going to see her ever since I got out of the hospital, and at this point I think I'm a glutton for punishment. I don't want to be reminded of my mom week after week, and yet I can't stay away. I can't stop myself from wanting to be near someone who is so much like her.
"Here's a list of meetings in your area," she explains, handing me a sheet of paper with locations, dates, and times typed on them. "They say that you should go to at least six meetings before you make a decision on whether or not it's right for you. Give it a try. Open yourself up to people who understand what you're going through. I really think it will help. Don't make me start lecturing you because then you'll roll your eyes at me and I'll have to nag you until you finally give in."
"Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Keep coming back. It works if you work it with a lot of love!"
The cheerfulness makes me want to roll my eyes, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek just in case Dr. Thompson somehow found a way to keep her eyes on me. A circle of twenty or so people unclasp their hands after the end-of-meeting prayer and disperse to chitchat. I never understand how these people can smile and act normal after they just spent an hour telling the room their deep, dark secrets. Like Diane, the woman whose son overdosed on heroin this past weekend after he sold off all of her furniture and jewelry to support his habit. Or Mike, the young husband whose wife drove their two daughters to school drunk, went left-of-center a mile from the school, and crashed into a telephone pole, killing the youngest daughter instantly.
Just as I've been doing for the past six weeks, I pick up my purse from the floor and walk out of the room with my head down, not speaking to anyone.
I'm not going to lie. When Dr. Thompson handed me the piece of paper with support group locations on it months ago, I crumbled it up and tossed it into my backseat as soon as I got in my car. After ten months of talking ad nauseam about why I'm not happy with my life, I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm a hopeless case and is just trying to pawn me off on someone else without making it too obvious. She's certain I've gotten over my "hump" and am no longer a threat to myself. Now, she wants me to lean on others for help with my father.
This is the sixth Al-Anon meeting I've been to in six weeks. I honestly can't tell you why I keep coming back. It doesn't "work if I work it" because I don't care to work it. I never share my story, I never make comments about anyone else's hardships, and I never make friends with any of the people I spend an hour with each week as they pour their hearts out to a room full of virtual strangers.
Except they aren't really strangers. They all know one another, share with each other, and lean on each other for support. I am the stranger in their midst. I am the weird girl who always sits just outside of the circle and chooses to "pass" when the conversation makes its way to her each week. I don't feel comfortable talking to people I know about my alcoholic father and how he's been in and out of rehab more times than I can count in the past year and a half, let alone talking to people who know nothing about me. I used to have no trouble talking to people, no matter who they were, about my problems. But that was a long time ago, and my problems usually consisted of what outfit to wear to school the next day or whether or not the boy I liked would ask me out. Things have changed a lot since then. I've put up walls and I've locked away all of my feelings because I've been crippled by the pain of being so alone, and I'm mistrustful of everyone around me. The people closest to me let me down and left me to fend for myself. How can I possibly trust anyone with my story and my feelings when I know that in the end, they'll just turn their back on me? They always do.
I make my way down to the first floor of Metro Hospital and out the front doors into the crisp night air, taking a few deep breaths as I walk to my car in the parking lot. Every week it's the same thing. I feel panic bubbling up in my throat as I listen to everyone's discussions, and I nervously tap my foot on the floor, counting down the minutes on the clock hanging on the wall until it's time to leave.
I still have no idea what forces me to return each week; no clue what possesses me to get in my car at 7:45pm every Tuesday night and drive the couple of blocks to the hospital and go up to the fifteenth floor to the meeting room. I'm not getting anything out of these meetings. I haven't learned how to "let go and let God" or "fake it till you make it" or any of those other crap slogans they stole from Alcoholics Anonymous.
I have a father who shut himself off from life the day my mother died and chose to console himself at the bottom of a bottle of vodka on a daily basis. I was dealing with the loss of my best friend while making sure my father didn't choke on his own vomit or die from alcohol poisoning. I was a senior in high school with my whole life ahead of me, and I had to check my father into his first stint in rehab a month after the funeral, take on the role of administrator for my mother's estate, and learn how to run a business—all in one day. I was suddenly the parent instead of the child. Up until that point, I was in the National Honor Society and slated for Valedictorian. After we buried her, I was lucky I even graduated.
All of the grief and heartache and responsibilities turned me into a person I barely recognized. One day my mother was here, doling out advice and helping me through life, and the next day she was gone. No warning, no heads up—just gone. Her life was snuffed out like the flame on a birthday candle, without the wish. There was only darkness. The woman who kept our small family together and our lives running smoothly had suddenly disappeared, and I was left floundering on my own.
I pull out of the busy hospital parking lot, swearing to myself for the hundredth time that I won't go to next week's meeting. I make my way across town and pull around back of Snow's Sugary Sweets—my mother's dream and my nightmare all rolled into one.
For years my mother made the desserts for every single wedding, graduation, baby shower, and family get-together. If she wasn't at work or out shopping, her second favorite pastime, she was in the kitchen baking. The house always smelled like butter and sugar and the oven was rarely off. Every time she showed up at an event with a tray full of goodies, people would tell her that she should just quit her job and open a bakery.
"Deena, these cookies are the best things I've ever eaten. What are they called and how do I make them?"
My mother let out a small chuckle as my aunt shoveled as many of the light, buttery confections in her mouth as she could handle.
"Those are called Lady Locks, Katie. They're very hard to make. I could give you the recipe, but then I'd have to kill you," she replied with a sinister laugh and a wag of her eyebrows.
"Fine, don't tell me. Just make sure you bring them to Christmas, Easter, my birthday, the kids' weddings, and any other get-together we have from now until we die. Or just open your own business already so I can come in every day and eat my weight in these things," my aunt stated seriously.
"Deal," my mom replied with a wink.
She laughed off the idea for a few years until she got laid off from her accounting job at a construction company when I was in junior high. With nothing to do day-in and day-out but wait for my father to wake up after sleeping the day away from working the night shift or for me to come home from school, she baked and started researching how to start your own business. Within two years, Snow's Sugary Sweets was up and running. Since our last name was Snow, it made choosing the name of the store easy. The hard part was getting my father on board with the plan.
"A bakery? We're opening a bakery?" my father asked in shock as he watched my mom hustle around the kitchen taking trays out of the oven, flicking switches on the four mixers she had going, and flipping through multiple recipe books.
"Yes, we're opening a bakery. Don't give me that look. You won't have to do anything other than tell me how amazing I am and be my taste tester," she reassured him as he rolled his eyes and heaved out a great big sigh. "Think of it this way. If it does well, you'll be able to retire early and tell all of those idiots who take advantage of you at the mill where to stick it. Then we can pay someone else to do all the hard work, and we can travel like we always planned."
With just a few carefully crafted words from her, my father's fears were instantly soothed. She knew he was concerned about the amount of time she would spend away from him and the house. My parents were connected at the hip. Where one would go, the other would surely follow. They met in high school and were best friends until they both decided they wanted more. Their marriage was something I always envied: high school sweethearts who stood the test of time. They were the epitome of soul mates. They had their share of problems over the years, but when your love was built on friendship, you could come out stronger on the other side of any disagreement. My father's reaction to the bakery was the closest thing to an argument I had ever witnessed. He was scared that if my mother put all of her time and love into this business, there would be nothing left over for him. If he had learned anything over the years, though, it was to never argue with my mother. If she wanted something, she got it or she made it happen. My mother was a genius at making my father feel included and letting him make important decisions regarding the shop so he wouldn't feel like this was just her dream coming true, but one they could share together.
Snow's Sugary Sweets quickly became the talk of our small town. It was the only bakery within a twenty-mile radius, unless you wanted to go to Wal-Mart and choke down one of their dry cakes with greasy frosting that left a nasty, oily residue in your mouth after just one bite. It also helped that everyone loved my mother. She was sweet, friendly, and would do anything to help someone out. She had more friends than I could ever imagine having, and she was the reason Snow's became such a huge success.
As I use my keys to unlock the backdoor of the shop, I think about the love/hate relationship I have with the place. On one hand, I love that everything about this place reminds me of my mother, from the smell to the snowman décor that decorates the walls and counter tops year-round to tie in the "snow" part of the store name. On the other hand, I hate that everything about this place reminds me of my mother. I hate that everywhere I look I can't escape the memories.
Death changes everyone.
It changes the way you think, the way you feel, and the way you live your life. Sometimes it makes you thankful for what you have, but more often than not, it makes you regret the things you've lost.
I'm eighteen years old and I've spent the better part of five months in a black hole that I can't seem to claw my way out of. Every breath I take, every moment in time I experience, is another reminder that the one person who should be here with me, guiding me and supporting me, is gone.
It's Mother's Day, five months since I lost her, since I lost myself to the memories and no longer recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror. I woke up this morning knowing what I need to do but hating it so much I want to scream and rage at the unfairness of it all. The fact that I'm still not one hundred percent sure about my decision should be a sign that I'm not ready to do this. I have no other choice, though. There is no other place I need to go, no other person I want to be with.
The sky is overcast and there is a chill in the air. It's the perfect type of weather for my mood and my plans. I roll out of bed and throw on a ratty pair of shorts and one of her shirts that I kept. I slide my feet into flip-flops and drive to the Panera Bread by my house. I order her favorite: a cinnamon crunch bagel, toasted with butter, and a large hazelnut coffee with cream, no sugar, and tell the cashier it's to-go. As she hands me my order, I hear the cashier next to her wish another customer "Happy Mother's Day." It takes everything in me not to turn and tell her to f**k off. All around me are mothers and daughters dressed for morning church services or casually clothed for a day of shopping together. The smiles on their faces and the laughter in their voices brings my mood down another few notches and forces me to swallow past the lump in my throat. I want to hate all of them. Me, the person voted "Best Friend to Everyone" and "Most Likely to Succeed in Making Everyone Laugh" in high school wants to walk up to complete strangers in a bagel shop and throw my cloud of doom over them by reminding them to cherish what they have because one day they might not have it anymore. At some point, without any warning, it can be ripped right out of their hands in the blink of an eye.
As more and more Mother's Day greetings fill the air around me, I fight the urge to scream at everyone. I snatch the bag with the cinnamon bagel in it, grab the coffee cup from the counter, and curse loudly when some of the scalding hot liquid splashes out of the drinking hole in the lid and onto my hand.
With a glare at the happy, smiling patrons, I exit Panera Bread, get into my car, and make the dreaded fifteen-minute drive to the cemetery so I can spend Mother's Day with my mom, a cup of coffee, a bottle of pills, and a straightedge razor.
Chapter One
Ten months later.
"Have you thought about going to a support group, Addison? I really think speaking to others who are dealing with the same hardships as yourself would benefit you tremendously."
I stare, unblinking, at my therapist as she continues with her spiel. She reminds me so much of my mother that it almost takes my breath away. The first time I walked into her office, the smell of Venezia Perfume assaulted my senses, and I almost turned and ran out of the room. I've never known of anyone else to wear that perfume, except for one person. My doctor has the same hairstyle, the same sense of humor, and gives the same type of no-nonsense advice. I've been going to see her ever since I got out of the hospital, and at this point I think I'm a glutton for punishment. I don't want to be reminded of my mom week after week, and yet I can't stay away. I can't stop myself from wanting to be near someone who is so much like her.
"Here's a list of meetings in your area," she explains, handing me a sheet of paper with locations, dates, and times typed on them. "They say that you should go to at least six meetings before you make a decision on whether or not it's right for you. Give it a try. Open yourself up to people who understand what you're going through. I really think it will help. Don't make me start lecturing you because then you'll roll your eyes at me and I'll have to nag you until you finally give in."
"Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Keep coming back. It works if you work it with a lot of love!"
The cheerfulness makes me want to roll my eyes, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek just in case Dr. Thompson somehow found a way to keep her eyes on me. A circle of twenty or so people unclasp their hands after the end-of-meeting prayer and disperse to chitchat. I never understand how these people can smile and act normal after they just spent an hour telling the room their deep, dark secrets. Like Diane, the woman whose son overdosed on heroin this past weekend after he sold off all of her furniture and jewelry to support his habit. Or Mike, the young husband whose wife drove their two daughters to school drunk, went left-of-center a mile from the school, and crashed into a telephone pole, killing the youngest daughter instantly.
Just as I've been doing for the past six weeks, I pick up my purse from the floor and walk out of the room with my head down, not speaking to anyone.
I'm not going to lie. When Dr. Thompson handed me the piece of paper with support group locations on it months ago, I crumbled it up and tossed it into my backseat as soon as I got in my car. After ten months of talking ad nauseam about why I'm not happy with my life, I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm a hopeless case and is just trying to pawn me off on someone else without making it too obvious. She's certain I've gotten over my "hump" and am no longer a threat to myself. Now, she wants me to lean on others for help with my father.
This is the sixth Al-Anon meeting I've been to in six weeks. I honestly can't tell you why I keep coming back. It doesn't "work if I work it" because I don't care to work it. I never share my story, I never make comments about anyone else's hardships, and I never make friends with any of the people I spend an hour with each week as they pour their hearts out to a room full of virtual strangers.
Except they aren't really strangers. They all know one another, share with each other, and lean on each other for support. I am the stranger in their midst. I am the weird girl who always sits just outside of the circle and chooses to "pass" when the conversation makes its way to her each week. I don't feel comfortable talking to people I know about my alcoholic father and how he's been in and out of rehab more times than I can count in the past year and a half, let alone talking to people who know nothing about me. I used to have no trouble talking to people, no matter who they were, about my problems. But that was a long time ago, and my problems usually consisted of what outfit to wear to school the next day or whether or not the boy I liked would ask me out. Things have changed a lot since then. I've put up walls and I've locked away all of my feelings because I've been crippled by the pain of being so alone, and I'm mistrustful of everyone around me. The people closest to me let me down and left me to fend for myself. How can I possibly trust anyone with my story and my feelings when I know that in the end, they'll just turn their back on me? They always do.
I make my way down to the first floor of Metro Hospital and out the front doors into the crisp night air, taking a few deep breaths as I walk to my car in the parking lot. Every week it's the same thing. I feel panic bubbling up in my throat as I listen to everyone's discussions, and I nervously tap my foot on the floor, counting down the minutes on the clock hanging on the wall until it's time to leave.
I still have no idea what forces me to return each week; no clue what possesses me to get in my car at 7:45pm every Tuesday night and drive the couple of blocks to the hospital and go up to the fifteenth floor to the meeting room. I'm not getting anything out of these meetings. I haven't learned how to "let go and let God" or "fake it till you make it" or any of those other crap slogans they stole from Alcoholics Anonymous.
I have a father who shut himself off from life the day my mother died and chose to console himself at the bottom of a bottle of vodka on a daily basis. I was dealing with the loss of my best friend while making sure my father didn't choke on his own vomit or die from alcohol poisoning. I was a senior in high school with my whole life ahead of me, and I had to check my father into his first stint in rehab a month after the funeral, take on the role of administrator for my mother's estate, and learn how to run a business—all in one day. I was suddenly the parent instead of the child. Up until that point, I was in the National Honor Society and slated for Valedictorian. After we buried her, I was lucky I even graduated.
All of the grief and heartache and responsibilities turned me into a person I barely recognized. One day my mother was here, doling out advice and helping me through life, and the next day she was gone. No warning, no heads up—just gone. Her life was snuffed out like the flame on a birthday candle, without the wish. There was only darkness. The woman who kept our small family together and our lives running smoothly had suddenly disappeared, and I was left floundering on my own.
I pull out of the busy hospital parking lot, swearing to myself for the hundredth time that I won't go to next week's meeting. I make my way across town and pull around back of Snow's Sugary Sweets—my mother's dream and my nightmare all rolled into one.
For years my mother made the desserts for every single wedding, graduation, baby shower, and family get-together. If she wasn't at work or out shopping, her second favorite pastime, she was in the kitchen baking. The house always smelled like butter and sugar and the oven was rarely off. Every time she showed up at an event with a tray full of goodies, people would tell her that she should just quit her job and open a bakery.
"Deena, these cookies are the best things I've ever eaten. What are they called and how do I make them?"
My mother let out a small chuckle as my aunt shoveled as many of the light, buttery confections in her mouth as she could handle.
"Those are called Lady Locks, Katie. They're very hard to make. I could give you the recipe, but then I'd have to kill you," she replied with a sinister laugh and a wag of her eyebrows.
"Fine, don't tell me. Just make sure you bring them to Christmas, Easter, my birthday, the kids' weddings, and any other get-together we have from now until we die. Or just open your own business already so I can come in every day and eat my weight in these things," my aunt stated seriously.
"Deal," my mom replied with a wink.
She laughed off the idea for a few years until she got laid off from her accounting job at a construction company when I was in junior high. With nothing to do day-in and day-out but wait for my father to wake up after sleeping the day away from working the night shift or for me to come home from school, she baked and started researching how to start your own business. Within two years, Snow's Sugary Sweets was up and running. Since our last name was Snow, it made choosing the name of the store easy. The hard part was getting my father on board with the plan.
"A bakery? We're opening a bakery?" my father asked in shock as he watched my mom hustle around the kitchen taking trays out of the oven, flicking switches on the four mixers she had going, and flipping through multiple recipe books.
"Yes, we're opening a bakery. Don't give me that look. You won't have to do anything other than tell me how amazing I am and be my taste tester," she reassured him as he rolled his eyes and heaved out a great big sigh. "Think of it this way. If it does well, you'll be able to retire early and tell all of those idiots who take advantage of you at the mill where to stick it. Then we can pay someone else to do all the hard work, and we can travel like we always planned."
With just a few carefully crafted words from her, my father's fears were instantly soothed. She knew he was concerned about the amount of time she would spend away from him and the house. My parents were connected at the hip. Where one would go, the other would surely follow. They met in high school and were best friends until they both decided they wanted more. Their marriage was something I always envied: high school sweethearts who stood the test of time. They were the epitome of soul mates. They had their share of problems over the years, but when your love was built on friendship, you could come out stronger on the other side of any disagreement. My father's reaction to the bakery was the closest thing to an argument I had ever witnessed. He was scared that if my mother put all of her time and love into this business, there would be nothing left over for him. If he had learned anything over the years, though, it was to never argue with my mother. If she wanted something, she got it or she made it happen. My mother was a genius at making my father feel included and letting him make important decisions regarding the shop so he wouldn't feel like this was just her dream coming true, but one they could share together.
Snow's Sugary Sweets quickly became the talk of our small town. It was the only bakery within a twenty-mile radius, unless you wanted to go to Wal-Mart and choke down one of their dry cakes with greasy frosting that left a nasty, oily residue in your mouth after just one bite. It also helped that everyone loved my mother. She was sweet, friendly, and would do anything to help someone out. She had more friends than I could ever imagine having, and she was the reason Snow's became such a huge success.
As I use my keys to unlock the backdoor of the shop, I think about the love/hate relationship I have with the place. On one hand, I love that everything about this place reminds me of my mother, from the smell to the snowman décor that decorates the walls and counter tops year-round to tie in the "snow" part of the store name. On the other hand, I hate that everything about this place reminds me of my mother. I hate that everywhere I look I can't escape the memories.
