I remember because my father loved to tease me about how I cried for a solid week. It stitched itself together in empty closets and the shadows behind bedroom doors until, one night, it took solid form.Īlthough I was very young, I remember the day Mama told me my little brother Adam was growing in her belly. A darkness grew like mold from the baseboards and hung like lichen from the walls.
Whatever else you take from me, though, this part is absolutely true: There was something wicked in our house. It makes me wonder what I’ve lost, both good and bad. I worry that maybe those spikes of experience are so deeply affecting that they gouge the eyes of memory and wiggle around like icepicks until nothing is left in the brain but the singular moments. Perhaps the rest of life is duller than these bright peaks of experience, and so only they stand out. Please forgive the confusion, but there are certain moments in life, it seems, that blind you to the others. While I can’t promise I’ll fix every misstatement, allow me to clarify that I am their first-born son and their only surviving child. You’d need only look at the graves to know that’s not entirely true. I come from a deep and worn out notch on the Bible Belt, the only child of Peter and Trudy Cadigan. The best I can do is tell you the truth about when I’ve lied. Lying isn’t even second nature it’s our primary condition.
That’s how confessions work, isn’t it? There are those things that even though we want to confess, we can’t confront, and so we talk around. The caveat is that I’m going to lie to you.
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