We cruise the ghetto, all of the major Childress streets slide past the passenger-side window; we pass all the bars and liquor stores of which we can think and then go back to the bus lot when it is time for the bus drivers to pick up schoolchildren.
Mom’s boss confirms that my mother did not show up for work today, and none of the other bus drivers have seen her. Mom didn’t call out sick either.
I start to feel as though I am very alone in the world.
When we get back to Donna’s house, Ricky is gone, and BBB has shredded the arm of Donna’s leather recliner.
When Jessica comes back from dropping off Ricky, she apologizes for the mess, and Donna says, “My fault. I forgot to tell you to lock up Bobby Big Boy whenever you leave the house.”
Even though Donna doesn’t say anything about my dog ruining her expensive furniture, seeing the damage makes me cry again for some reason.
I’m so tired.
After a few phone calls, Donna convinces the local police to come interview me. She leaves Father Chee in charge, and then the lawyers shower and dress and get ready to go to Donna’s ongoing murder trial.
Father Chee just sits next to me on the leather couch BBB ripped earlier, and we take turns petting B Thrice.
FC doesn’t say anything stupid, like most adults would, but just sits with me, which I appreciate.
Right after Donna and Jessica leave, two nice uniformed officers come and ask me a bunch of questions about where Mom and I were living, Mom’s drinking problem, and her long list of past boyfriends, all of whom I describe in great detail, while the cops write it all down.
Donna told me to tell the truth, and so I do.
I give all of the same answers to the private detective Donna hired, who shows up seconds after the police leave. He’s a twitchy man with a big yellow mustache and acne scars all over his face. He also writes down my answers—all the secrets I have been keeping for months now.
When we finish, it’s almost noon, which means that—besides the hour or so of sleep I got on the bus—I have been up for thirty-some hours straight.
“Are you okay?” Father Chee asks me.
“I’m so tired,” I say, and then because I really need to, I snuggle up to my Man of God, resting my head on his shoulder, and cry some more.
Somehow I fall asleep.
PART THREE
Puke and Cry
CHAPTER 13
It takes them nine days to find my mother’s body, but when they do, the story is the lead on every TV news station and is on the front page of every local paper, especially since my mother’s killer is immediately linked to the other rape-murders that had happened in the area, so I’m sure you know all of the gruesome, unreal, sadistic, and childhood-ending details. I’m not going to list these details here, because I don’t want to give the facts any more credence than they already have.
I’m pretty numb now.
Maybe even numb enough to be an official nihilist like Joan of Old.
For some things there are no explanations—no reasons, and so, when these things happen, there is nothing to talk about really. And it is best not to dwell on said things for too long, because you will find that life has no real meaning if you do.
Maybe you think I am only saying this because I am in a state of denial or shock, but that’s just not the case. I’m being honest, maybe for the first time.
With Father Chee and Donna, I go to identify the body, even though Donna says I don’t have to.
For some reason, I need to see.
I insist.
I’m a real cat about it.
Maybe I want to know, just so I won’t be wondering for the rest of my life—like I do with Dad. And as selfish as it might seem, knowing that my mother is definitely dead is better than thinking she might be out there somewhere having abandoned me in an effort to live an easier life without her stupid daughter to worry about.
I go to the morgue.
I see the facts.
It’s worse than anything I could have ever imagined.
My howling stops them from uncovering more than Mom’s head and shoulders.
I don’t want to see any more.
I crumble.
I melt.
I evaporate.
They cover what’s left of my naked mother back up with a sheet and push her into a wall, which is when I realize that she is in some sorta freezer.
I do not talk for three days.
I sit.
I stare.
I see my mother’s naked dead body in a dark freezer.
Sometimes I shake.
It seems like I am in a constant nightmare.
Donna brings me soup and crackers and toast—and takes care of BBB’s needs.
At my request, Donna pays to have my mother cremated.
Fire. Warmth. It’s better this way.
I promise to pay Donna back, and she says it’s not necessary.
The very next day, at my request, Father Chee performs a private ceremony at the bench where Mom and I used to feed ducks.