Crazy Enough by Storm Large Read Free Book Online Page A

that’s why she’s here. Do we need to identify her body or sign something, because I have to get the fuck out of here, okay?””
    I jumped to my feet, swatting the little animals off the desk and onto the floor.
    â€œNot dead,” said the candy-coated Disney bitch without singing.
    She tried to regain her cough-syrup tone, saying that Mom was okay but we could not see her. She offered us no condolences or details. As we got up to leave, she told us someone from the hospital would let us know when it was okay to come back and visit. My brother thanked her, I think. But his voice was so low that he could’ve said “Fuck you, lady.” And made it sound like thanks. John was so cool. I was not. I made sure my feet crunched over the bits of porcelain kitty heads and snapped little paws on my way out.
    We found out, later, that Mom had smashed her lily-of-the-valley perfume bottle in the sink and carved herself up pretty good with a shard. She probably had no idea we had even come that day, as shelay somewhere wearing gauze opera gloves, barely able to form a sentence from all the drugs they pumped her with.
    I tried so hard to be hard. To not care, make no big deal, and be tough. My brothers could do it, but me? I sucked at not caring.
    My dad was the best at looking tough. He told me his secret, once. We were in the car heading back to Southborough from Boarsie. It had been a glorious day of sun and ocean. As the afternoon crept into a warm, orange evening, we all enjoyed an impromptu clambake, with my brothers and I, Dad’s parents and family, all my cousins, extended summer friends, dogs, and Frisbees. We all stuffed ourselves with clams, lobster, and buttered heaps of corn on the cob. The grownups smoked and drank beer and the kids ran amok in the cooling sand.
    My brothers had stayed behind, and Dad brought me with him as he went back for some Mom-related crisis. I sat in the front seat with my sand-sticky feet on the dash, staring hard out the passenger side window. I didn’t want Dad to see my face, crumpling around my stupid, indulgent tear ducts. We were rolling under passing streetlights on our way to I-95, and I didn’t want him to know I was crying. Crying was weak.
    My throat was tight and big fat tears welled behind my lids. I tried to do the tough thing, the correct thing, and quickly wipe anything that fell from my lashes. I guess only a dumb kid would think holding one’s breath and wiping each eye every three seconds while staring ferociously out the window wouldn’t betray the truth.
    â€œWhat is it?” my dad asked sweetly. Of course, it made me cry harder. I strained every facial muscle I had, trying to stop the tears. I folded my arms tighter and higher and shook my head quickly.
    â€œIn a minute,” I tried to say, but my voice was that gapping, breathy, crying girl voice. Mom’s voice. I was so embarrassed. I wasscared that Dad might get angry if he knew what I was thinking. As soon as we were on the dark highway, headed south, my breathing smoothed out and I could talk without sounding like Mom. “I loved today. I love our family,” I started.
    â€œMe, too,” he said, waiting.
    â€œIt’s just that . . . Mom doesn’t have this. She never did, and it’s all she has ever wanted. It just doesn’t seem fair, you know?” I felt tears coming again, but my dad spoke up immediately.
    â€œYou know what I do, when it all gets to be too much?” He wasn’t angry at all. He sounded like his teacher self, wise and calm, not the hurt man ready to flip out if someone burnt a pot of hot cocoa. “I take all of those feelings, all the sad and scary feelings, and I lock them in a box inside my head. You don’t have to feel them at all, just put them away. You can deal with them later.”
    Oh, how I tried to find that manly box in my head, to stuff it with all my crazy thoughts and feelings, but I just