Page 142 of The Comedown

“Sixteen,” I add quietly, admitting, “I wish my parents’ sheen would’ve worn off then.”

“So you wouldn’t have met Bodee?”

I think back over everything I’ve been through. Thanks to my ex-husband, this journey’s had one too many dead ends, more wrong turns than I can count, an entire mountain range of scandal, but I can’t actually find any regret in going through any of it. Would I be who I am today without it? Would I still have Holter? Would my fans be connecting to the songs written from the heartache all those obstacles caused?

Would I be in this hotel room with Julian right now?

“How old were you when it happened?” I ask him instead of answering. Just like Julian can’t regret getting his record deal because of where it led him, I can’t regret meeting Bodee because of where it led me. Necessary evils are just that—necessary.

“Probably around six. Kindergarten.”

“Six years old?” My heart aches for six-year-old Julian. “What happened?”

“Alcohol.”

“And drugs?”

“I didn’t used to think so, but now…now that I, uh… Now it seems pretty likely. But I don’t know where the fuck she had the money for any of it. We were dirt poor. Mold in the corners of every room you walked into, a hole in the floor in front of the fridge, broken locks on the doors, no hot water, lights we kept off because if they even did turn on, they’d flicker. Recently, I’ve been noticing all the cracks, and the more I look, the more I see…me.”

“My family wasn’t anything close to what could be called wealthy, but we weren’t dirt poor either,” I tell him. “My parents worked odds-and-ends type jobs, only when they felt like it though. They were dreamers, the kind that thought love ruled all, and nine-to-fives were just distractions from what was really important. They always managed to make our home life seem comfortable enough that I didn’t really think about how we afforded things. Like, every Sunday morning, they’d make crepes together, and watching them giggle like high schoolers in love, I used to feel so happy, so loved, and I’d sit there dreaming about having the same thing one day.” I shake away the fantasy from trying to take over yet again all these years later, and continue with my original point. “Now, looking back, I can see the cracks, too. Even still, I wouldn’t consider our situation dire enough…”

I take a deep breath, exhaling until my lungs deflate completely.

“I wouldn’t consider our situation dire enough for my parents to sell me off to Bodee.”

“They really did that? They sold you to that motherfucker?”

“Essentially.” I nod. “And I don’t see myself in those cracks. I see the exact opposite route I’ve chosen to take of making the constant, stable drive for work my life’s mission. They avoided work for love, but I’ve avoided love for work. The only time I tried to make the two go hand in hand, the results were catastrophic, and I was…”

“What?”

“I was given away anyway.”

“You mean up? You were given up by Bodee?”

“Yes.” No.

Julian hums to himself, then says, “I killed her.” And before I can even muster a single response, he adds, “My mom. My grandma, too. I killed them both.”

“What do you—”

“Even before I was six, my mom drank. It just didn’t seem like a problem. Or maybe I was too young to understand that it was. My dad left her when I was a baby, so it was just us. I didn’t know anything else. I didn’t know anyone else, not even other adults. No babysitters, nothing. She was my whole world. So, when I started going to school, and I learned things like days of the week, then would come home and she wouldn’t even know what day it was because she was so drunk, I just thought maybe she needed some help. Help for little shit though, shit I thought everyone needed sometimes, you know? Like getting her water and medicine when she had a headache, putting the popsicles in the freezer because she’d always put them in the fridge, putting a towel over the spot on the couch she pissed when she couldn’t make it to the bathroom, putting her to bed in the mornings because she stayed up all night drinking. I didn’t know that she needed help help—big help. I didn’t fucking know any better. I thought I was doing what was best for her.”

“You were just a child, Julian.”

“Then I got older, and I started catching on that maybe that’s not how all adults were, at least not the teachers at my school. I wasn’t allowed to go over to my friends’ houses and I never really felt like asking anyone to come over to mine.”

“Because you still had to help your mom so much?”

“Had to.” He nods. “It was still…automatic. Like it was normal. There were things I just did every day. Before school, I put water and crackers out next to her, making sure she was on her side so she could find them easier and so she wouldn’t choke on her puke. After school, I’d check our apartment for puddles of puke, or piss, in case she got up while I was gone. She confused my closet for the bathroom a lot.”

“No,” I groan, already knowing where this is heading. Julian didn’t kill his mom just like he didn’t kill his grandmother. He only feels responsible for their deaths.

“Fifth grade, this motherfucker showed up. Was just there when I got home from school one day and never left. With another mouth sucking down enough liquor to float a New York City nightclub, money was… We didn’t have any. We never had much before he showed up, and we had even less after he showed up. We lived in section eight housing, and we ate thanks to welfare. The only way I ate besides the free meals at school was by using my mom’s food stamp card, but Barney—”

“Barney? That’s a terrible name.”

“Terrible name for a terrible guy.”