How did we end up back here?
On Writing: Published in issue 10.1 of the Rappahannock Review
I’m thrilled to share “How Did We End Up Back Here?” — published in issue 10.1 of the Rappahannock Review.
I did a short interview with the nonfiction editors of the Rappahannock Review, which you can read below before diving into the piece.
RR: “How Did We End Up Back Here” uses a long timeline to showcase the transformations within the relationships. How did you choose which moments to include when it came to telling your story?
JE: I anchored the story in the first and last time my mother was incarcerated because they are the memories that burn the brightest in my mind, the moments in our relationship that have most affected me. I wanted to show the transformation that took place within myself, while also showing the lack of change in my mother, and how that colored our relationship. The long timeline aided the tone of longing and loss, further pushing me toward the question: when is it acceptance and when is it just settling? Is there a difference?
RR: We were drawn to the constant complications between mother and daughter. Especially witnessing your mother being arrested at a young age. How did you decide to write about that relationship?
JE: I needed to understand who my mother was, why she did the things she did, and who we were as a result of her actions, so I wrote to find out. And I’m still writing. I’ve written a memoir about us and many of the pieces I publish to my Substack are centered around her, and yet, it never seems like enough. I’m always writing to get to the center of us, of our love, of who we are despite the chaos and dysfunction that has engulfed our relationship since the very beginning. I’m trying to get to the healing, not just for me, but for her.
RR: In writing such intensely emotional material, did you find that you had to decompress after writing particular moments?
JE: Absolutely. There were moments that had me hunched over my keyboard with my head in my hands. But I’ve found that it’s those moments that I need to write the most. I write toward the pain, the anguish, all the things that put my heart in my throat. For me, that’s where the real work gets done. That’s where the healing begins. When I need to give myself a break, I hold my son, kiss my dogs, or go for a walk. I’ve found that love and movement are the things that help me recenter my peace.
Here’s an excerpt of the piece…
How Did We End Up Back Here?
Mom was always glowing, be it from the day’s sun, the fluorescent lights of the prison visiting ward, the flickering of the lighter flame, or the police lights shooting around her like dying stars. On this night, it was the glow from the porch light.
I was visiting from college for the weekend, back in the Mojave for the millionth time. The living room was dim and I was lying on the plum-colored couch watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind to distract myself from being back in the desert. As I started to lose myself in the surrealism of the film, I heard a knock at the door. Jarred by the sound, I fought the urge to fold into myself. There it was again. A knock, more like a tapping, against the edge of the old screen door.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My chest went tight like it was filling up with water. Nothing good ever came from the tap, tap, tap. I forced myself toward the sound. Two figures stood beyond the screen. They blurred into the night behind them, and I squinted trying to make out their faces. The glare of the badges on their chests lit my limbs on fire.
My hands, pale and trembling, reached for the door. It creaked when I opened it, but I could only hear the ringing in my ears. Watching the shadows of moths move across their stiff faces, I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came.
“Is Tammy Easton home?” one of them asked.
I could see his lips moving but the words sounded foreign, from another country, another planet. I don’t know how long I stood there voiceless, staring at his flapping mouth, but it felt like all of eternity.
The cops have been coming to the door for Mom in one way or another since I was three years old. The first time, they bust the door off its hinges in a raid and ripped her from the bed where I was sleeping beside her. The memory flashed through my mind like a shock of lightning—Mom’s nicotine-stained fingertips reaching for me as the cops carried me away, the men with guns trying to restrain her, the way her eyes looked wild and lost, but not scared.
The cop at the door pulled me out of the past.
“Miss, is Tammy Easton home?” His lips were chapped and the slivers of dried skin peeled and flaked along the edges of his mouth.
The words were beginning to form in my mind. All the blood left my body, leaving me lifeless like a bag of bones.
“Miss, we need to speak with her. Is she home?”
…
HOW DID WE END UP BACK HERE? published with the Rappahannock Review, read the full piece here.
If you enjoyed this story, you may like my last published piece, The Things We Leave Out. It was published in the Good River Review and has since been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and The Best of The Net Award.
