A confession. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. I didn’t feel ready … I’m sorry …” Hand on eyes. “… my mother committed suicide when I was fourteen. On the QE II, New Year’s Eve. I was at boarding school in Virginia. We talked that night. I remember the call verbatim.” Aching “When she died it was worse than … after my other sister died. I’m ashamed I never mentioned her to you. She died when she was four. After being real sick. I used to wish my mother would die … because she was so depressed after my sister died. But I never said it to her. I was sullen … an angry little boy.” Terrible amusement. “Oh, listen to this one: at my mother’s funeral, one of my uncles said it’s too bad I wasn’t nicer to her. Like maybe I’d contributed to her using a pistol for a blow-dryer. Great, right?” A finger raking hair off forehead, collecting it to one side. “Just a minor little nuance in my development. Ate me up inside. Horrible thing to say.
