I'm standing there reflecting over the past year of my life. Nevermind that the standing is more like kneeling, and the reflection is quite literally in a pool of blood. My head is starting to spin as I realize what I've just done. And what I have to do next.

But before we get to all of that, you should probably know what's going on. I've lived a lifetime not knowing myself. To understand where it all started you have to go back to Berkeley, California. Alta Bates hospital, June 3. Mom had come out West to be part of the hippy movement. Of course she missed it by twenty years, but that didn't seem to bother her. Berkeley in the 90s was a weird mish-mosh (emphasis on the mosh) of hippy, punk, preppy and grunge, with a few street hustlers in there. That's Berkeley. They lined Telegraph Avenue selling everything from jewelry to oils. In just one block, your nose was assaulted by greasy pizza joints, patchouli clouds, always a tinge of Ganga. Mom worked as a buyer at Rasputin Records, and absolutely loved to tell get into good-humored arguments about what was "real music". Yep- my mom was a music snob, but beyond that she was a loving, and supportive woman who considered herself a traditional mom. Sort of.

My mother had come from old money in the south. Savannah to be exact. She'd been raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, the model child of Southern etiquette. Hers was a childhood filled with cotillions, private schools, and trust funds. Most people would have loved that, but not my mom. She saw it as the source of all her problems in this world, and somewhere along the line during college she met my dad who was playing bass in a band. They fell in love, ran away together. Three thousand miles away to be exact.

===

The literal dead weight of the body was too much for me to drag across the cellar in one motion. I had to stop to regain my strength at least twice. Meantime, it was dark down there, with only the hint of light coming from down the passage, so I hadn't noticed how much blood I had on my hands. That little fact caused me to fall flat on my ass as I attempted to haul her one last time. Somewhere between wanting to finish, and wanting to vomit, my mind flashed to where I was only a year before. 

===

My mother never had to work. She wanted to, and the place she chose was Rasputin Records in Berkeley. I guess after my dad took off, the allure of the music business stayed with her. I never knew my dad. By the time I came along, he was long gone. Oh, he wasn't dead, and he was out there somewhere. I just hadn't found him yet. And I wasn't likely to have him find me. Not after the way my Mom told him to get lost. She always regretted that, but he did as she said (or as she screamed, from what I understand). There was no way he was going to come looking for me. Like, ever. So all I ever really knew as family was just Mom and me in an apartment off of Claremont Avenue.

It was a cute place; a white building with red Spanish tiles. Dreyer's Ice Cream was literally behind us, so it wasn't unusual to wake up smelling whatever flavor they were making that day. Rocky Road was my favorite. To get by, Mom cashed in stocks and bonds, and all sorts of funds that her father had set up for her. Of course she'd never admit that to her hippy friends who came over for drum circles, or political debates, and current events. No, Mom kept it to herself that her family was the very sort of people she and her friends despised. My mother's family were the kind of people that ran the country, and had buildings named after them at impressive colleges. Yes, that's sarcasm you're sensing. You see, I always saw my mom as being a hypocrite. She was a trust fund baby. She had family in high places. She hated it.

===

Sitting there in the dark; in the blood, still a little in shock... I understood Mom's rejection of it all; this 'family in high places' business, but before I knew anything about the Westcotts, I was just as ignorant as the rest of the world. Back then  I looked at the wealthy people my mother despised, and saw them for what they were. People. Sure, they might wear pearls, and suits, and shirts with tiny reptiles on them, but that was their choice. Not hers. Good for them that they went to fancy colleges, and drove nice German cars. That's what they liked, just as much as my mother liked her hemp dresses. Truth is, I thought clean and pressed looked nice. What's wrong with conservative? I kind of liked it. Mom and I fought about that a lot. In fact, the lowest blow I could give her was to remind her that she was a Southern blue blood. Got her every time. She hated it. But she was.

But as much as Mom fought it, there was still a part of her southern roots that she couldn't let go. Oh, not this bloody business, but the elegance that she grew up with.  Mom thought nothing of wearing vintage Pucci around the house with bare feet, and toe rings. Her friends never knew her shirts cost a grand each, but I did. She'd pair it with worn out jeans, and a fringe jacket she bought at one of those used clothing shops on Telegraph.

Our little head-butting over this hypocrisy happened every time we went to Fenton's. It was classic. No matter the time of day, there would eventually be a Piedmonter or two whose mere presence would set us off. What's a Piedmonter you say? That would be anyone who hails from the little City of Piedmont, California; a bucolic little city in the hills of Oakland.

Back in the day, Piedmont was where the elite of San Francisco would spend their summers. But after the earthquake of 1906, a lot of them left the city and moved to Piedmont for good. Eventually, Piedmont became filled with all sorts of millionaires, from newspaper publishers, to coffee heirs, a bunch of stock market people. Oh, and the author Jack London. too.

===

Just thinking of a classic author like Jack London caused me to immediately think of those books. My god- the moment I saw that library upstairs, I thought I was in heaven. I mean, they looked so amazing. I only wish I had known what they consisted of. 

===

My mind flashed back to that day at Fenton's. The day I looked around at the patrons and wished I were more like them; like the Piedmonters. Oh, and you can spot a Piedmonter if you know what to look for. The have a "look" of shiny, clean complexions, like they'd just stepped out of a commercial. Personally, I always thought they looked beautiful. It was obvious grooming was a part of their morning routine. But then, just as I'd be thinking this, Mom would scowl under her breath, "They don't even look real." And then the war would begin.

"I like it," I'd say. "Why won't you let me buy clothes like that? It's just clothing."

"Because. The nicer that people appear, the more they have to hide."

"That's ridiculous, Mom. Don't judge a book by its cover."

"Yeah, well a cover is exactly what it is. A cover."

"Whatever."

Then she would huff, and say, "You'll see someday. Appearances can be deceiving."

"Oh my god. You're the one always talking about not judging people, and here you are." I dove back into my Black & Tan like I always did. My statement seemed to do the trick.

"Fine, but where I come from people aren't always what they appear. That's why I left home so young." She took a giant bite of her crab sandwich, and spoke again. "You know, when I was your age, I was all alone."

"When you were my age, you left. Voluntarily. And you weren't alone. You were with my dad."

"Trust me. I was alone."

We sat in silence for a bit. Then I tried to mend things.

"Whatever happened when you were my age; whoever you had a falling out with, would you please consider reaching out? I mean, I'm seventeen so it's been what- eighteen years right? It would be nice to have some family. It's sort of depressing at Christmas, Mom. Ya know?"

I looked around the dining room once again. Other than one creepy looking guy in a blue sweater sitting alone in the corner, the entire place was filled with families, and groups of people smiling, laughing and enjoying themselves. They looked so happy, this polo-shirt-tennis-skirt-velvet-headband wearing country club set. I shoved another mound of ice cream into my mouth to get rid of the bitter taste.

"Mrs. Cagwin. We have Mrs. Cagwin," she corrected.

"Mrs. Cagwin is great, but she's not family."

"She might as well be, Sam. Mrs. Cagwin is more of a mother than I ever had."

Now she was getting emotional. I tried to do some damage control.

"I know. I didn't mean that. I just meant-"

"You trust me don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then trust that I have your back. You have far more of a life than I did at your age."

===

Those words looped in my mind over and over as I began to cut the body into manageable parts.