CHAPTER ONE
GAVIN
*This series contains sensitive subject matter. If you are easily triggered or have experienced serious trauma, this book series may not be for you. Not recommended for persons under 18 years of age.
Life tends to make its path known fairly early on. Living on barely the necessities in Flint, Michigan, I discovered this for myself. My home—a small, white, lacklustre duplex—had a revolving door for the guys my mom, Elizabeth, would date in search of “The One.” She wasn’t always a disaster, but life didn’t hold back its punches, and it led her down a path that was hard to come back from.
As a child, my parents seemed to have the perfect relationship. My dad was attentive. Mom always smiled. They deftly played their parts of doting husband and loving wife, fooling my brother and me into thinking they were happy. It wasn’t until I got a little older that I realized my father’s love for the general female population had become more than the love he had for my mother. Once I removed the rose-coloured glasses my parents had put on me, I saw the ugliness in their marriage—the brokenness they tried to hide. I noticed Dad’s drifting eyes floating toward every attractive woman that would walk by. Following their every move like a puppy looking for a bone. Watching them with interest. Hunger.
When I was about six, the infidelity started. At first, there were random days when my dad would come home late from work. Over time, the frequency increased to daily. He began to have late-night meetings, frequent business trips and made lame attempts to sneak into his office to make private calls. Regretfully for him, stealth wasn’t one of his strong suits, and his secret quickly became blatantly obvious.
For two years, Mom knew about his indiscretions but insisted he didn’t mean to hurt her. She suffered in silence while he got his rocks off, giving other women the love that was supposed to be hers—the love she deserved.
She was the saint everyone knew her to be. She was generous, caring, funny. She wore her heart on her sleeve and unbiasedly showed it to everyone lucky enough to meet her. She was naturally beautiful, inside and out, drawing people in with her looks and holding onto them with her kindness. She was everything my dad should have wanted and more. But for some unknown reason, he couldn’t see the amazing woman standing in front of him. He couldn’t see how lucky he truly was.
Just before I turned ten, Dad decided that juggling a wife and two kids—along with his mistresses—took too much of his time. He wanted to settle down, get his priorities straight, become more invested in what was important to him. He wanted to concentrate on the one thing worth losing his family over—riding a twenty-two-year-old blonde secretary named Mindy.
He callously walked away and never looked back. It was this lack of remorse that I remember the most about his departure, his blasé attitude that put the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. Shortly after, Mom was served divorce papers, and a series of unfortunate events were set in motion. Each one, snowballing her life down a steep hill with nothing but suffering and hardships waiting for her at the bottom.
Following the divorce, Mom did her best to provide for my brother, Ethan, and me, waitressing at a pub nearby. With her base rate and tips, she was able to afford the rent on our house. It wasn’t a great neighbourhood, but we had a roof over our heads, and that was enough for us.
Eventually, money grew tight, and her wages weren’t enough to cover the necessities anymore. We would often ration our meals to ensure they lasted at least until her next payday. Most of the time, we’d live paycheck to paycheck, with her picking up as many extra shifts as she could. But the number of hours she spent on her feet took a toll on her, and she resorted to drinking to have a release.
Frequently, I’d find a collection of empty bottles in the corner of her room. She’d be passed out in a tangled mess among them, her tiny frame looking weathered like it had barely survived the storm. That’s when random men started to appear.
After meeting them at work, Mom would invite them to share her bed, to give her the attention she so desperately craved. They were nothing like the men she deserved. They took advantage of her. Used her. They made her suffer their abuse when they should have been making her feel safe and loved. Respected. I’d often come home to find her in tears, covered in bruises, with the life and light that once lit up her face completely gone, and her dark, green eyes empty of the woman she once was.
She needed to be loved.
The abuse didn’t always stop at her. The savagery occasionally crept into the sanctuary of my and my brother’s bedrooms. It stole our innocence. It stole our childhood. We were just boys, then. Two boys trapped with nowhere to go and no one to protect us. I had to become the man of the house who slayed the demons and fought the battle. Because no one else would.
Slowly, I became more defiant, trying to deflect situations before they’d present themselves. I installed locks on our bedroom doors to keep the predators at bay. I lifted weights, used a punching bag. I gained the strength necessary to fight back and protect the people closest to me.
I made the abuse stop.
Then, one day, five years ago, I came home after spending the afternoon with my friends and found Ethan—twelve at the time—standing paralyzed over our mother’s pale, motionless body. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He should have been with his friends. At soccer practice, not at home. Not until half an hour later. He wasn’t supposed to see his mother unresponsive on the floor. No child is supposed to see that. Now, every time we close our eyes, it’s all we can see.
As a child, my parents seemed to have the perfect relationship. My dad was attentive. Mom always smiled. They deftly played their parts of doting husband and loving wife, fooling my brother and me into thinking they were happy. It wasn’t until I got a little older that I realized my father’s love for the general female population had become more than the love he had for my mother. Once I removed the rose-coloured glasses my parents had put on me, I saw the ugliness in their marriage—the brokenness they tried to hide. I noticed Dad’s drifting eyes floating toward every attractive woman that would walk by. Following their every move like a puppy looking for a bone. Watching them with interest. Hunger.
When I was about six, the infidelity started. At first, there were random days when my dad would come home late from work. Over time, the frequency increased to daily. He began to have late-night meetings, frequent business trips and made lame attempts to sneak into his office to make private calls. Regretfully for him, stealth wasn’t one of his strong suits, and his secret quickly became blatantly obvious.
For two years, Mom knew about his indiscretions but insisted he didn’t mean to hurt her. She suffered in silence while he got his rocks off, giving other women the love that was supposed to be hers—the love she deserved.
She was the saint everyone knew her to be. She was generous, caring, funny. She wore her heart on her sleeve and unbiasedly showed it to everyone lucky enough to meet her. She was naturally beautiful, inside and out, drawing people in with her looks and holding onto them with her kindness. She was everything my dad should have wanted and more. But for some unknown reason, he couldn’t see the amazing woman standing in front of him. He couldn’t see how lucky he truly was.
Just before I turned ten, Dad decided that juggling a wife and two kids—along with his mistresses—took too much of his time. He wanted to settle down, get his priorities straight, become more invested in what was important to him. He wanted to concentrate on the one thing worth losing his family over—riding a twenty-two-year-old blonde secretary named Mindy.
He callously walked away and never looked back. It was this lack of remorse that I remember the most about his departure, his blasé attitude that put the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. Shortly after, Mom was served divorce papers, and a series of unfortunate events were set in motion. Each one, snowballing her life down a steep hill with nothing but suffering and hardships waiting for her at the bottom.
Following the divorce, Mom did her best to provide for my brother, Ethan, and me, waitressing at a pub nearby. With her base rate and tips, she was able to afford the rent on our house. It wasn’t a great neighbourhood, but we had a roof over our heads, and that was enough for us.
Eventually, money grew tight, and her wages weren’t enough to cover the necessities anymore. We would often ration our meals to ensure they lasted at least until her next payday. Most of the time, we’d live paycheck to paycheck, with her picking up as many extra shifts as she could. But the number of hours she spent on her feet took a toll on her, and she resorted to drinking to have a release.
Frequently, I’d find a collection of empty bottles in the corner of her room. She’d be passed out in a tangled mess among them, her tiny frame looking weathered like it had barely survived the storm. That’s when random men started to appear.
After meeting them at work, Mom would invite them to share her bed, to give her the attention she so desperately craved. They were nothing like the men she deserved. They took advantage of her. Used her. They made her suffer their abuse when they should have been making her feel safe and loved. Respected. I’d often come home to find her in tears, covered in bruises, with the life and light that once lit up her face completely gone, and her dark, green eyes empty of the woman she once was.
She needed to be loved.
The abuse didn’t always stop at her. The savagery occasionally crept into the sanctuary of my and my brother’s bedrooms. It stole our innocence. It stole our childhood. We were just boys, then. Two boys trapped with nowhere to go and no one to protect us. I had to become the man of the house who slayed the demons and fought the battle. Because no one else would.
Slowly, I became more defiant, trying to deflect situations before they’d present themselves. I installed locks on our bedroom doors to keep the predators at bay. I lifted weights, used a punching bag. I gained the strength necessary to fight back and protect the people closest to me.
I made the abuse stop.
Then, one day, five years ago, I came home after spending the afternoon with my friends and found Ethan—twelve at the time—standing paralyzed over our mother’s pale, motionless body. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He should have been with his friends. At soccer practice, not at home. Not until half an hour later. He wasn’t supposed to see his mother unresponsive on the floor. No child is supposed to see that. Now, every time we close our eyes, it’s all we can see.
5 YEARS AGO
“Mom?” My voice breaks as I stare at her pale, lifeless body, contorted on the floor.
Why isn’t she waking up?
I kneel down to give her a shake.
Nothing.
I check for a pulse. It’s weak, barely tangible beneath her tepid skin. The faint warmth of her breath on the back of my hand tells me she’s still breathing, but her lips are taking on a bluish hue.
“Mom, you need to wake up. Wake up!” I demand, rocking her again.
“I—I came home and—and this is how I found her.” Ethan’s voice wobbles, tipping my world off its axis. I fall back on my heels and grasp my hair.
My eyes catch sight of something beneath the edge of the cabinet next to her hand, followed by a broken vodka bottle that rolled several feet from there. I reach for the tiny plastic container and turn the empty pill bottle over in my hand—the last refill of sedatives her doctor was willing to give.
They recognized her addiction and refused to feed it any longer. I guess she couldn’t deal with another loss, and she took the only escape she felt she could take.
“Gavin, what are we supposed to do?” Ethan pleads, expecting his older brother to have all the answers.
I blankly stare at my mother while trying to work through the millions of thoughts running rampantly through my mind. I’m struggling to grasp the ones I need.
“Gavin!” Ethan’s sharp outburst snaps me back into focus.
“She OD’d.” I grimace, feeling sick when I see the understanding of what we’re facing on my young brother’s face. “Quick. We need to get her off her back.” I grab her arm and hip and roll her onto her side. “Hold her upright.” I pull out my phone and dial the life-saving digits.
My heart jackhammers against my ribs, pounding so hard it pulses loudly in my ears. I almost don’t hear the dispatcher when she asks, “What’s your emergency?” I numbly give her what little details I can as my eyes stay fixated on my mother, not wanting to miss even the slightest movement.
Please move.
Mom, you have to move!
Starting robotically, I follow the woman’s instructions as closely as possible, lowering my ear to her mouth to check her airways again. Her faint breath blows gently against my skin.
It’s weak.
Too weak.
A gurgle bubbles in the back of her throat, then it stops—along with my heart.
My eyes widen. “She—she stopped breathing!” My voice is hoarse and choppy as I speak into the phone, struggling to keep my emotions from erupting. Thankfully, the female’s voice guides my next steps, taking the need to know what to do away from my sixteen-year-old shoulders.
Following her instructions, I roll Mom back flat against the floor, place my left hand on top of the other—careful of my placement—and start compressions on her fragile body. Each push gets more aggressive. More emotional. The palms of my hands seem to span the entirety of her chest as I press down, her frailty so much more apparent now that I’m no longer the boy I used to be.
For years, she gave me her strength. Now she needs mine.
Mom, I can’t do this! I need you! We need you! My mind screams overwhelmed. Panicked.
Once I count thirty presses, I lean down to give the woman who gave me life breath. One. Two. I start compressions again, repeating the pattern for what seems like an eternity until the paramedics finally burst through the door. They immediately jump into action, taking over where I left off. They throw around a boomerang of commands as they quickly scan for injuries and gently place her on a stretcher, strapping her in snugly. Hurrying outside, they speedily load her in the back of the ambulance while we numbly watch, powerless to change the scary scene in front of us.
There’s so much movement and chaos in the tiny space, yet Mom continues to lie eerily still. Wires are being woven together in an intricate web above her, their sole purpose: to keep her alive. Though, as the ambulance speeds toward the hospital, with its lights and sirens screaming their urgency, a gut feeling tells me they’re already too late.
My breathing is heavy, and my teary eyes burn. I’m blindsided by the enormity of what this all means.
A few uniformed strangers are here to ensure our safety, but I’ve never felt more alone.
I wrap my arms around Ethan’s trembling shoulders. It’s just us now. Two young boys standing in the middle of a driveway, trying to figure out how this became the worst night of our lives.
Why isn’t she waking up?
I kneel down to give her a shake.
Nothing.
I check for a pulse. It’s weak, barely tangible beneath her tepid skin. The faint warmth of her breath on the back of my hand tells me she’s still breathing, but her lips are taking on a bluish hue.
“Mom, you need to wake up. Wake up!” I demand, rocking her again.
“I—I came home and—and this is how I found her.” Ethan’s voice wobbles, tipping my world off its axis. I fall back on my heels and grasp my hair.
My eyes catch sight of something beneath the edge of the cabinet next to her hand, followed by a broken vodka bottle that rolled several feet from there. I reach for the tiny plastic container and turn the empty pill bottle over in my hand—the last refill of sedatives her doctor was willing to give.
They recognized her addiction and refused to feed it any longer. I guess she couldn’t deal with another loss, and she took the only escape she felt she could take.
“Gavin, what are we supposed to do?” Ethan pleads, expecting his older brother to have all the answers.
I blankly stare at my mother while trying to work through the millions of thoughts running rampantly through my mind. I’m struggling to grasp the ones I need.
“Gavin!” Ethan’s sharp outburst snaps me back into focus.
“She OD’d.” I grimace, feeling sick when I see the understanding of what we’re facing on my young brother’s face. “Quick. We need to get her off her back.” I grab her arm and hip and roll her onto her side. “Hold her upright.” I pull out my phone and dial the life-saving digits.
My heart jackhammers against my ribs, pounding so hard it pulses loudly in my ears. I almost don’t hear the dispatcher when she asks, “What’s your emergency?” I numbly give her what little details I can as my eyes stay fixated on my mother, not wanting to miss even the slightest movement.
Please move.
Mom, you have to move!
Starting robotically, I follow the woman’s instructions as closely as possible, lowering my ear to her mouth to check her airways again. Her faint breath blows gently against my skin.
It’s weak.
Too weak.
A gurgle bubbles in the back of her throat, then it stops—along with my heart.
My eyes widen. “She—she stopped breathing!” My voice is hoarse and choppy as I speak into the phone, struggling to keep my emotions from erupting. Thankfully, the female’s voice guides my next steps, taking the need to know what to do away from my sixteen-year-old shoulders.
Following her instructions, I roll Mom back flat against the floor, place my left hand on top of the other—careful of my placement—and start compressions on her fragile body. Each push gets more aggressive. More emotional. The palms of my hands seem to span the entirety of her chest as I press down, her frailty so much more apparent now that I’m no longer the boy I used to be.
For years, she gave me her strength. Now she needs mine.
Mom, I can’t do this! I need you! We need you! My mind screams overwhelmed. Panicked.
Once I count thirty presses, I lean down to give the woman who gave me life breath. One. Two. I start compressions again, repeating the pattern for what seems like an eternity until the paramedics finally burst through the door. They immediately jump into action, taking over where I left off. They throw around a boomerang of commands as they quickly scan for injuries and gently place her on a stretcher, strapping her in snugly. Hurrying outside, they speedily load her in the back of the ambulance while we numbly watch, powerless to change the scary scene in front of us.
There’s so much movement and chaos in the tiny space, yet Mom continues to lie eerily still. Wires are being woven together in an intricate web above her, their sole purpose: to keep her alive. Though, as the ambulance speeds toward the hospital, with its lights and sirens screaming their urgency, a gut feeling tells me they’re already too late.
My breathing is heavy, and my teary eyes burn. I’m blindsided by the enormity of what this all means.
A few uniformed strangers are here to ensure our safety, but I’ve never felt more alone.
I wrap my arms around Ethan’s trembling shoulders. It’s just us now. Two young boys standing in the middle of a driveway, trying to figure out how this became the worst night of our lives.
