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Bill was far and away my favorite of my mom ’ s boyfriends . She met him when I was ten , just after a bout with a grumpy alcoholic whose name I don ’ t remember . Bill lived in a little white house that he owned in a bad part of town , with a rusted back gate and a tiny yard . He was the first boyfriend to stay in the room for more than an initial five minutes when I came to visit her , and even showed me pictures of his son , who was fighting in Afghanistan . He had real furniture , with blankets my mom had crocheted laid on every couch and chair , but more than anything , I loved the way he sat so calmly with his arm around her , getting up to get us glasses of water so she would not have to leave me .
Typically , my foster mom would lead the conversation , because my mom and I were so awkward , stumbling over sentences , trying so hard to find something to say . I loved her , but love was not enough to span all the gaps she had left — in time , affection , my knowledge of her as a person . Her fluffy white cat named Sisqo that Bill let in the screen door from the scrawny yard was the first clue I had that she listened to any music other than oldies , and the green fuzzy sweater she gave me for my birthday was a testament to her lack of knowledge of my boyish tastes . Bill stepped neatly into those gaps , with his calm circle-lensed glasses and his white linen pants , asking me about school and books , telling me about his son .
He took my mom bowling and didn ’ t keep liquor in the house . She got a job while she was with him as part of her adult education . She worked in a nursing home filling water glasses during lunch service , and each time she called me , she had a story to tell me about what the crazy old people said , or how much the old men loved her company . For the first time in my life , she was sober , thriving , alive . Bill told me a story of how during their first argument , he raised his hands in expression , and she flinched as though he was going to hit her . “ The argument stopped ,” he explained , as my mom laid a hand on his knee , smiling at me . “ I couldn ’ t believe that she thought I would hit her , and we needed to talk about it .”
They were together for years , which to my mom might have been eons . I ’ ll never know how it ended , because my mom was suddenly slurring her words every phone call . She quit working and got a shitty two-room apartment over a pizza joint in center city , with walls painted a creamy orange . She started dating the man in the next apartment , a silver-haired guy named Sal , who showed me pictures of his estranged daughters on our first meeting , each wallet-sized school
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