Body and Bone Read Free Page A

was reminded of her mother. She was always talking about her stuff, was fiercely protective of what was hers. “You broke my glass. You ruined my blouse. You can’t use my car.” Mine, mine, mine.
    And in that moment, she had a revelation. Instead of marrying a man like her father, the way most women did, she’d married one like her mother.
    â€œYou will be sorry you did this,” John had screamed. “You will pay for this.”
    Nessa couldn’t help herself. “Of course I will,” she’d said. “Because I have to pay for everything .”
    She’d gone in the house and locked him out.
    Now Nessa sat at her desk and booted up the ancient Windows XP computer she used for her AA personal inventory blog. It wasn’t connected to the Internet so no one could get at the password-­protected journal except her.
    She got out her Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book and turned to page sixty-­four, the beginnings of the resentment inventory, and read the text as she always did, although she had it memorized: “In dealing with resentments, we set them on paper.” She sighed and started typing.

 
    Chapter Three
    5/31
    Hi. I’m Nessa, and I’m an alcoholic. I have been sober for six years, four months and twelve days.
    Here are just a few of the things I need to hand over to my Higher Power: At the top of my hit parade is imagining my Higher Power as my mother, Joyce Gereben, standing behind me looking over my shoulder, watching everything I do with disapproval. Hilarious, all things considered. My sponsor Marlon W. tells me that modeling God on a critical and/or absent parent is common to ­people like us, although for most it’s their father. I can’t model God on my dad, because I hardly remember him. He left us when I was five or so.
    Sorry, HP. I know you’re not actually Joyce Gereben.
    First, a confession. When Officer Michaels opened the door to the boathouse, I had hoped John was actually inside with a gun, and the cop would have no choice but to shoot him in self-­defense. Then all my problems would be solved. What kind of fucked-­up human being wishes another one dead?
    At the same time, an irrational, ridiculous fantasy erupted: that the real John, not crackhead John, was hiding in the boathouse with balloons and an I’m Sorry and I’m Done with Drugs Forever banner, and that I’d run into his arms and . . . I can’t pine away for something that doesn’t exist, that does real harm to my psyche, my spirit, my sanity. I have to go forward one day at a time, stay sober, and raise Daltrey.
    Which I don’t know how to do without John. Parenting comes so naturally to him, where to me, it’s a struggle. I love that boy with all my heart, of course, but the only reason I have any idea what to do with him is because of John.
    I wouldn’t have guessed this of him when we met, which was after I moved to Denver and got a job at Wax Trax, the record store. John didn’t seem like father material, not that I was looking for a baby daddy. He used to hang around the store, and he was this huge presence. He had these big beautiful brown eyes—­Daltrey’s eyes—­and longish hair. He was from Russell, Kansas, and had been a crack addict. But he was as addicted to Narcotics Anonymous as he’d been to crack, which should have been a red flag for me. Still I had the biggest crush on him right from the start. I’ve always ignored my instincts when I’m in love. That’s probably pretty common.
    We’d been married less than two weeks the first time he relapsed. We’d had an argument, and he hadn’t come home from work. By two A . M . , I was frantic, driving all over Denver through the night. I searched for him for five days until I got a call from Denver Health saying that John had been found naked in a park, high on crack. He was arrested and wound up in the psych unit. The