Prologue

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Sarah was only fourteen when she saw her mother try to kill herself: she had just walked into the barn when she saw a large black shape leap off the loft, the pigeons scattering with the sound of something dropping overhead. It was bright inside, the barn was flooded with light, and Sarah could barely make out what was happening. Shielding her eyes with her hand, Sarah looked up and saw her mother hanging backlit in the sunshine, the specks of dust floating in the air. It wasn't until her body jerked that Sarah knew she was still alive.

Sarah shot up the ladder and hauled her mother back onto the loft, sticking two fingers between the rope and her mother's neck to give it slack. Her mother wheezed, and she knew she had to get help. She ran to the house where her father was drunk and sprawled on the couch. Screaming and crying and shaking his shoulder, she tried to wake him but he didn't move. She ran to the neighbors instead.

Sometimes she wonders, what if she just called 911? What if she didn't run to the neighbors, who lived half a mile down the road? What if she were older, legs stronger and pumping faster, could she have made it in time? She remembered how her feet pounded against the dirt road, the dust kicking up around her legs and choking her eyes, and how her lungs were tight and ready to burst. She flung the neighbor's door open and screamed. That's the last thing she remembers.

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The morning her mother tried to kill herself, Sarah was watching her move around in the kitchen. Normally she would stand quietly in front of the stove while Sarah fussed around with her oatmeal, but this time was different. Her mother couldn't stop moving. Her mother roamed. She paced the kitchen, folding and unfolding a towel in her hands. Her eyes seemed to wander everywhere, and when she sat at the table, she sat down where her father usually sat. When Sarah looked at her mother's face, she noticed she seemed to be watching everything, her eyes moving from the table, to the oatmeal, to the china in the china cabinet. Her mother had wide green eyes that crinkled in the corners, but that morning they seemed vacant, blind. They darted back from the floor to meet Sarah's gaze, and when their eyes locked Sarah had to look away.

Sarah got up to get her schoolbooks ready; when she came back, her mother wasn't in the kitchen anymore. She found her in the den, standing by the dead deer's head over the fireplace. Leaning against the doorway, Sarah watched as her mother reached up and traced the deer's nose with her fingertips, then the wooden plaque it was mounted on. Her mother's eyes rose and skimmed the dusty shelves before focusing on the window opposite her. Walking to the window, she looked outside, and her reflection was watery and distorted by the rain. Dark hair curled by her mother's throat, and there were even darker circles under her eyes. She was holding a cup of coffee, but it was cold; Sarah knew because the steam had stopped rising from it a while ago.

"When do you think your dad's coming back?" her mother asked.

Sarah fidgeted with her book bag. "I don't know," she said.

Her mother's gaze broke from the window and turned toward her; she smiled as if they shared a secret.

"They let you down," her mother said. She set the cup down and knelt beside her; she smelled like sweat and baby powder. She gripped Sarah's arms. "Don't ever let them let you down."

Sarah's arms started to go numb and she squirmed, pulling away. "I'm going to miss the bus," Sarah said. Her mother let go, and her eyes misted over.

When Sarah got home from school, it was raining and Sarah couldn't find her again; she opened the kitchen door and instead of seeing her mother standing over the stove, she saw overturned chairs and broken beer bottles littering the floor. Glass had crunched under her feet when she walked in, and the room was thick with the stale, sick smell of smoke. Everything was still except for the raspy breathing of her father passed out on the couch. Her mother wasn't in the living room; she wasn't in the bedroom and she wasn't in the den. Sarah went outside. The yard was empty, the old barn staring back at her.

She still has nightmares about it, even to this day: she dreams of dark spaces, of big black birds and hay glowing like fire. And above her, Sarah dreams of her mother's body swinging from the rafters, and how her head rolled loose like a broken doll's.

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"Fuck," her father said. They were standing outside, watching the paramedics cart her mother's body away. Her mother wasn't dead but she should have been; her eyes were glazed over but she was breathing, a thready pulse denying the peace her mother must have wanted. "Your mother was a stupid woman," her father said, and Sarah wanted to cry. It stopped raining when the paramedics left.

"Is she going to be okay?" Sarah asked. Her father stared at the barn, lips tight and swirling the beer bottle in his hand. "Is she?"

He smacked her across the face with the beer bottle. Sarah staggered back, her lip bleeding.

"It's your fault!" her father said. "You should have stayed with her! You fucking little bitch, you know how she gets! Why didn't you stay with her?" He raised his arm as if to hit her, but he didn't. He stared at her instead, his eyes drunk and angry and looking like they would pop out of his skull.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said. Her father took another swig of beer.

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When her mother got out of the hospital, she shuffled slowly and her face was turned to the side. Her mouth didn't close all the way and she gaped listlessly at them, her head loose and rolling side to side. "Say hi to your mother," her father said. Sarah took a step forward.

"Mom?"

Her mother's eyes rolled upward, trying to focus. Sarah wanted to hide. Her mother's slack lips widened into what might have been a smile.

"Haaaaaaa," her mother said. Drool dripped down her chin.

"It's Sarah," her father said. He stood tight-lipped and hulking, something like anger or concern flashing on his face. "Don't you recognize Sarah?"

Eyes rolled from her father back to her. "Haaaa," her mother said. Sarah couldn't look at her.

These were the things that no one in her family talked about, things that the neighbors spoke about in hushed whispers overheard at the bus stop. Sarah would see the prying eyes peeking from behind closed drapes, or the soft, pitying looks of passersby when she and her father went grocery shopping. Everywhere they went, people were looking, staring, judging. But no one knew the truth of it. Sarah didn't even know the truth of it, and she lived it every day.

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"Your mother wasn't right," her father said, as if he were talking about homework, or a misspelled word in scrabble. And Sarah agreed: she wasn't right, she was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, in every way wrong. The way her body was stiff in the hospital bed, the way her arms flexed inward and her feet curled in; the way she would look right up at them and not recognize them. Everything was wrong. Later she would curse herself, torture herself over missed words and missed opportunities, but her fourteen-year-old self was terrified; her fourteen-year-old self hid behind her father, even though he smelled like beer and cigarettes, because her mother wasn't a person anymore, she was a thing--a lump of flesh, wobbly and unsteady on her feet. But what scared Sarah more was her father, and his sudden concern for her mother. "Look Bea, look, I brought you something," he'd say, and he would pull her mother limply into the bedroom, or the living room, or the couch in front of the TV. "I brought you lipstick," he would say, and he would try to put it on her mother's lips, his hands shaking and smearing lipstick all over her mouth. "It's not so easy, since her mouth is open," he'd say. Sometimes he would stare at her, eyes and hands restless and fidgeting on his lap. "Oh, Bea, I'm so sorry," he'd say, over and over, and even at fourteen years old, Sarah knew there was a deeper meaning. She just couldn't discern what.

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Her father only apologized like that once before Sarah's mother had tried to kill herself. Sarah remembers it well: how he staggered home at 3 AM, and how her mother sat perched on the couch, staring at the window. Sarah had woken up to the sound of her mother crying and ended up sitting next to her in the living room. Sarah was only nine, and her mother sat her on her lap; her knees were bony and her breath was sour from crying. When her father staggered in, her mother pushed Sarah to the side.

"Who is she?" her mother asked. Her mother's hand raked Sarah's hair.

"Who?" her father asked.

"Her! Her! Who is she?" her mother asked. She stood and grabbed Sarah by the shoulders. "Don't you lie," she said. "Don't you lie in front of our daughter!"

Her father smacked her across the face. Her mother flew backwards, crashing into sofa.

"Mom!" Sarah said. She ran to her mother's side.

"Little bitch," her father said. He shoved Sarah against the wall, yanking her mother up by her shirt front and dragged her into the bedroom.

"Mom!" Sarah said. She ran after them. "Mom, mom!"

"Sarah go to bed!" her father said. Her mother was crying. "Now!" he said.

Sarah ran into her room and shut the door. She clamped her eyes shut and covered her ears, rocking herself to sleep. She could hear her mother wailing in the background.

The next morning her mother didn't leave the bedroom, and Sarah could hear her sobbing. Her father sat at the kitchen table, eyes bloodshot, hungover and hunched. When Sarah got closer, she saw he was nursing a cup of coffee. "Your mother made me do it," her father said. He seemed to be talking to the coffee. "I didn't want to, but she gave me no choice."

The sobs echoed down the hallway. Her father closed his eyes, rubbing his temple. "She made me do it," he repeated. The wailing got louder.

"Shut up!" her father said. He slammed his fist on the table. Coffee splattered over the cup. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

He smashed the coffee cup against the wall. Sarah jumped back. The wailing stopped.

Her father hunched over again, eyes bloodshot and sober. "She fucking made me," he said. "I'm not an animal."

Sarah took the broom and mop from the closet and began sweeping up the broken cup, the coffee making sticky streaks on the floor.

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Her mother's eyes crinkled when she smiled. Irish eyes, they called them. Always smiling. On the day her father decided to send her to the nursing home, Sarah remembers that her mother's eyes crinkled.

"You want to leave here, don't you?" Sarah asked. Her mother's head bobbed loosely in excitement. Sarah pushed it back upright.

"I made you something," Sarah said, and she showed her mother the red and yellow bracelet she knotted together earlier; the beads were smooth and brightly colored. "See mom, it matches your dress," Sarah said, and she tied it around her mother's wrist.

"Haaaaa," her mother said. Her mother's mouth spread wide. Her eyes crinkled.

"I'll visit you every day," Sarah said, and she hugged her mom hard. She smelled like baby powder.

"Sarah!"

Sarah turned. Her father staggered into the living room. "Sarah!" he said.

Sarah scrambled to her feet. "Dad, I was just--"

The punch sent her crashing into the coffee table.

"Eeeeh!" her mother said.

Sarah groaned, turning over.

"What did I say about bothering your mother?" her father said. He was drunk. His words were thick in his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said. She started to cry.

"You goddamn right you're sorry," her father said. He yanked her up by her shirt and shoved her against the wall. "You're mother just needs some peace! She can't get it with you smothering her like this!"

"Eeeeeeeh!" her mother said. "Eeeeh! Eeeeh!"

"It's your fault!" he said. He slammed her head against the wall. "It's your fault, you shouldn't have left her! You shouldn't have--"

"Eeeeeh!!" her mother said. She bobbed, writhing. Her hands slapped uselessly against her side. "Eeeh! Eeeeeh! Eeeeeh!"

"Look what you did! You're upsetting her," her father said. He let go of Sarah's shirt, and she crumpled on the ground like a sack of potatoes. Her father went up to her mother and gathered her up into his arms. "Shhh, baby shhhh," he said. His drunk piggy eyes filled with tears. "My poor baby," he said. Greasy tears ran down his face.

"Dad I'm sorry," Sarah said. "Dad, dad please--"

"Shut up," her father said. He carried her mother back to the bedroom.

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"I wonder what she's doing right now," her father said. A week had passed since the ambulance came to take her mother to the nursing home. "I wonder if she misses me."

She doesn't miss you, Sarah thought, but she stared at her eggs, instead.

Her father stabbed his grapefruit, then reached for another beer.

"Your mother had a lot of problems," her father said. He took a swig, then swiped his sleeve across his mouth. "She was fucking paranoid. I just liked going out with my boys. A couple beers, that's all. She was really fucking paranoid."

Sarah pushed her eggs with her fork. They were slightly rubbery, a pale, jaundiced yellow. She mashes them up with the side of her fork.

"I was doing the dry wall over at the new Burger King," her father said. "That's hard work, doing dry wall. A man's gotta relax, gotta wind down. And the bitch wouldn't put out for nothin. What's a man supposed to do?"

He took another swig. Sarah watched as the beer dribbled down his chin.

"It's your fault," he said. "I fucking told her not to have you, but she insisted. What was I supposed to do? I'm a man of my word, I ain't no asshole. I'm not gonna leave a girl in trouble like that. I loved her, goddammit. And you had to fucking ruin everything." He was drunk now, the fleshy skin of his lips shining with a thin coat of saliva.

"Don't look at me like that," he said. He slammed the bottle down. "Hey!" he said. He grabbed her arm. "Don't you fucking look at me like that, I'm your fuckingfather."

Sarah turned away. She stared at her hands, and at the dirt underneath her fingernails.

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Her father was passed out on the couch when the nursing home called: they needed them to come in right away, they had some bad news.

"Your wife died last night," the nurse manager said. "She choked on one of her bracelets."

"Choked?" her father said. "What do you mean, choked?"

Sarah's chest tightened. She remembered tying the delicate red string around her mother's wrist, how her mother's eyes crinkled and her mouth stretched into a broad smile.

"It's possible she didn't know what she was doing, but given her psychiatric history, it was probably intentional. I'm so sorry. We did everything we could," the nurse manager said.

Her father slammed his fist against the table.

"I'm going to sue your asses," her father said. "I'm going to sue your asses and shut this whole place down!"

He grabbed Sarah by the arm and stormed out. He went home and raided the liquor cabinet, guzzling all the bottles and smashing them on the ground. Sarah hid in her bedroom, listening to the sound of crashing glass on linoleum tile. She heard him stagger, then heard him thud. Out of habit, she opened the door and crept back to the kitchen. Her father was passed out on the floor.

Sarah crouched low and rolled him on his side. Her father gurgled. She stood and carefully swept up all the glasses, sweeping them into delicate piles on the floor. The sun was starting to set, and orange light came in slanted through the kitchen windows, making the glass sparkle like crystal. Her father grunted. She could hear the wind and the sounds of birds calling out in the distance. She remembered how her mother's eyes crinkled, just like hers. Irish eyes, they said, the same Irish eyes that seemed to sparkle and stare straight into hers while she was hanging from the rafters...

Her father wheezed, turning and groaning in his sleep, and Sarah's thoughts turned back to that morning, back to how her mother stood by the window looking out into the rain, and how her hands curled delicately around the coffee cup; she thought about the tips of her mother's fingers, and how they were white and pale like china...

It's my fault, she thought, and she pushed her father's shoulder with her foot. I shouldn't have left her alone.