Chapter II, Part I

On my nightstand is a photo of my mother and father sitting on the couch with all of our pugs. I believe that it’s Christmas of 2004 and both my parents have that sleepy look in their eyes like they’ve been up all night wrapping gifts. I can’t help but comment on the smug look on my father’s face. It’s the look I’ve become accustomed to the last ten years. It makes me both laugh and cry.

My mother gained a pretty significant amount of weight (unusual for her) the last four years and didn’t feel much like posing for the camera. There are very few pictures of her in recent years, so my nightstand photo is particularly precious to me. I light a candle by the photo most evenings. I also give her kiss and say goodnight before I turn in. All of this has become necessary parts of my day. When I travel the photo comes along and finds a place by my bedside.

After a recent disturbing conversation with my sister where she informed of my father’s recent behaviors, I decided that I didn’t want that picture on my nightstand any longer. I hated his fucking smug face. It was about 11:00 a.m. and I tore through the house like a whirling dervish in search of a new picture of my lovely looking mother sans Smugface.

It was a bad night. Since I’ve become holder of the enormous family photo collection, I’ve spent countless hours carefully placing them in photo albums. There are boxes of photos in my office, on our kitchen table, on our bar. I was up and down the stairs. Lots of crying. Dan followed me, closing all of the windows because he knows the cries will turn into screams and at some point I may start talking to my dead mother very loudly. On top of it all, I’m already feeling the drowsy affects of the sleeping pill I downed right after I got off the phone. I’m very obviously hysterical at this moment and it’s very liberating.

I finally locate a picture - me and mom on my college graduation day in May 1999. My parents threw me a fabulous party where we all got tanked and ate tons of yummy Italian food. It was great fun. It’s also the last picture I have of us together and that was nearly eight years ago. I can’t even begin to explain how bad this makes me feel.

I stomp back upstairs to find a picture frame. All of my movements are disjointed as I place the photo into the sky blue frame. My head is pounding. I pop a vicodin. Dan brings me water and tissues. I am snotting on his shirt. He finally settles me down in our bed.

The next evening I notice the glass from the sky blue frame is cracked. I don’t recall this. I put the picture with Smugface back on my nightstand and light a candle. I miss him.