The idea of oblivion, forgetting all the pain, had been addictive to her, so she’d agreed to Miller’s not-at-all-sexual terms.
And they’d become one of the unhealthiest couples to ever grace the planet. He treated her like shit, beat her black and blue when the mood struck, forced himself on her damn near every night. And she despised him right back, only sticking around so she could get her next hit.
When he grew bored with her, he’d pick on me. I can’t remember how many times my mom had watched dispassionately as my dad wailed on me, her eyes glassy and lifeless as she inhaled whatever she was smoking.
On the good nights, when she’d crawl in bed with me to escape him, shaking from withdrawal tremors, she’d tell me about the other baby, her voice far away and wistful as she imagined how good her life could’ve been if only her mechanic had lived.
“I could’ve had a real son,” she would say. “One I could actually love.”
And I’d always kind of hated that other boy, or envied him—whatever—wishing I could be him instead of me, away from this place and probably adopted by some amazing family who actually gave a shit.
Learning about Pick’s past had changed all that though. He was the right age to be that baby, but he had never been adopted by some kind, caring family. After asking around, I’d discovered he’d had a pretty sucky childhood, yanked from one foster home to the next, forced into watching one of his foster sisters get raped and basically having the worst luck wherever he went, landing at only the awful homes.
I owed so much to Pick. He’d let me transform his bar completely and set up a stage for my band. He’d let us have our premiere performance here and then return every Friday. He’d let me create karaoke night and install pretty much any sound system feature in the place I wanted.
I had fans. My dream was coming true. Because of him.
It felt shitty for me to keep my story to myself after what I knew.
Didn’t I owe it to him to tell him I might possibly know who his mother had been?
Well, idiot me, I’d had a little too much to drink after a show one Friday, and I’d made the decision to clue him in, thanks to some help from my buddy Captain Morgan. I’d left him a voice message, spilling everything.
He hadn’t mentioned it afterward, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up. So I let it go, hoping maybe I’d gotten the wrong number or somehow only imagined that I’d called him.