It always happens like this.
That’s what I’m thinking at this moment. It’s not that I don’t have compassion; it’s just that I’m tired of having her problem invade my life, like a returning mould on the shower door. Hadn’t I done a better job of cleaning that away?

I remember being five and it was the first time a friend came over the house to play. She was all mine for two endless hours. I couldn’t fathom that we could play for that long. I had received a glow-in-the-dark game for Christmas and I couldn’t wait to light up the ghosts and retreat with her to the closet and play. I pulled my desk chair to my closet and climbed up, holding on to the unsteady door for support. The game was just beyond my reach but I managed to catch the end of the box with one small jump. I brought the game down and carried it to my bed purposely taking my time to the delight of my friend. “Open it”, she squealed. At just the right moment I flipped off the cover only to discover empty but still runny beer cans hidden inside.

A sickly sweet smell reached our noses and I could see that each of the pieces was coated with a sticky, dirty film. My magical ghosts were hideous and disgusting, even ghostly, and I quickly covered up the game. Somewhere inside I must have known who had hidden the cans in there, and why, because I didn’t say anything to anybody. I just stuffed the game back on the shelf where it stayed unopened until I threw it away. I can’t remember if the girl ever came back to play.
That’s how things happened in my house. We’d be enjoying life and all of a sudden her problem interrupted everything and after the distraction I’d stand there, numb and bewildered, wondering what was I doing before all of this happened?

It was ironic, really, because we were sort of the “royalty” of my small hometown. No one would have believed the things that really went on behond closed doors.