Page 83 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are
“Wait, you’re not angry with them?” She peers out at the live audience seated behind the cameras. “I know I would be.”
“Anger is easy, Rebecca. It’s the most rudimentary of human feelings. Babies experience anger. Psychopaths experience anger. People with little to no brain activity experience anger. But compassion and forgiveness are challenging. They’re the most complex of all the emotions. So, no... I’m not angry with them.”
She tucks her chin in and flips through her cue cards quickly. “If your mom and dad were sitting across from you right now, what would you say to them?”
I smile the smallest smile at Rebecca. She’s probably thinking I’ll break down in tears, and she’ll have this incredible moment for television, cementing her as a top journalist, maybe even getting her a Daytime Emmy nomination. But I won’t shed any tears today.
“I would tell them I love them,” I say.
“That’s it?” She furrows her brow. “There’s nothing else you would say to them?”
I pause for a moment, considering my answer and the one she wants to hear. “I’d also reassure them that they were good parents and that they did the best they could.”
Rebecca moves her mouth side to side and flips through her cue cards again. “What about your brother, Michael, who might be watching?” She looks at the camera. “For those that don’t know the story of the Thomas family, Michael Thomas is currently in prison for the next fifty years for the murder of his father, Brian Thomas; assault with a deadly weapon; kidnapping; and desecration of a human corpse, among a number of other charges.” Rebecca looks back to me with her most serious face. “What would you say to your brother, Michael, if he was sitting right here, Nicole?”
“I’d tell him I love him. I’d remind him of the times he used to sleep on my bedroom floor when we were kids because I was terrified of the monsters that lived under my bed. I’d thank him for keeping me safe and keeping the monsters at bay. But I’d also tell Michael I’m sorry for not protecting him from them too.” A single tear rolls down my cheek.
Rebecca’s smile widens, and I hear the hum of one of the cameras zooming in to capture it. I don’t wipe it away. Because it’s not for them.
“You’re going to read a little for us today from your book, right?” She lifts her hands to get the audience to cheer, and they do. Because this is show business and you do what the show tells you.
“Yes,” I say. “But just the prologue.”
“Perfect, let’s hear it.”
I pick my book up from the table beside me and open it to page one. Before I start, I clear my throat and exhale through my nose. Breathing in the present, breathing out the past.
“‘The best stories come from those that are flawed, broken, really. Those who have endured trials and tribulations. Those who have faced the world and come out on the bottom. Only they can tell stories worth listening to, for they have had more than one beginning, more than one middle they’ve dragged themselves through, and more than one ending... and despite it all, their story continues. My name is Nicole Thomas. I’m a lot of things—a former drug addict, an older sister to a murderer, a younger sister to one of the bravest women I know, a daughter to flawed parents who loved their children to a fault, an aunt to a niece who has seen me at my lowest points but loves me anyway, an aunt to a nephew I hope never sees that side of me, a good friend and a bad friend, a liar and a straight shooter, but most importantly, I’m a storyteller. This is my story. And it starts at home... because home is where the bodies are.’”