There was a certain relief in the breaking of the glass—the shattering of something other than our pathetic little family.

We went on breaking bottles. “He’s a cheapskate.”

“He’s a phony.”

“He’s an asshole.” Even then, though, I couldn’t say the swear word with any conviction.

“He’s a fraud.”

“He’s an adulterer.”

We paused at this.

“I will never forgive him,” Ty said, staring down at the reeking shards at our feet.

“I will never forgive him,” I repeated, and it was as if we were making a vow.

In a way it felt like Dad had died. The man I knew, the quiet, gentle man who read Harry Potter out loud to me when I was 10, who helped me study for the 5th-grade spelling bee, who laughed over the funnies in the Sunday newspaper, that man was gone. All that was left was the cheater. The liar. The fraud.

In that moment, I knew it was true.

I will never forgive him. Not ever.

“Come on,” Ty said, slinging the bat over his shoulder. He put his arm around me. The man of the house now. “Let’s go home.”

24.

WHEN MOM WAKES UP, I’M WAITING FOR HER.

“What’s this?” she says as she comes into the kitchen and sees me standing at the stove in her blue gingham apron, scraping an only marginally burned portion of scrambled eggs onto a plate.

“Breakfast.” She watches as I set both of our plates on the table. I take off the apron and put it back on its hook, pour us some juice, and sit down. “Bon appétit.”

She glances at the oven clock. “This is wonderful, honey, but aren’t you going to be late for school?”

“I’m not going to school today.”

She stares at me. I never miss school. I have a perfect attendance record, as a matter of fact, because Ty died during Christmas break.

“We’re going to take a trip,” I announce.

“A trip?”

“You have three days off.” I point to the work calendar she has posted to the refrigerator with magnets. “I will miss only one day of school.”

She notices the far wall of the kitchen, where I’ve stacked everything we’ll need: pillows and clean pillowcases and blankets to snuggle with in the car, anything resembling a snack that I could find in the pantry, a six-pack of Mom’s lethal Diet Coke (which should get us through the drive there, at the very least), and finally our suitcases, both fully packed, which goes to show just how Valium-and/or-alcohol-induced my mother’s sleep was last night, that I could move around her room opening and closing all her dresser drawers without her waking up.

“I have it all planned out,” I say.

She sits down across from me. “You want to go on some kind of road trip?”

“Yes. A road trip.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.” On the table there’s a stack of papers I’ve been reviewing—a hotel reservation and directions and other research—which I pull out of her reach. “Just say yes, Mom.”

She pushes a clump of eggs with her fork. If she doesn’t agree to this, what will come next is that she’ll eat a bite or two, to placate me at least that much, and then she’ll go back to bed.

“Please, Mom,” I beg. “I need us to do this. I can’t go back to school today, not with how people are going to be after Patrick. I can’t do it.”

Her lips purse for a few seconds, then relax. “All right,” she says resignedly. “A road trip.”

That’s the spirit.

“Just you and me,” I say. “Dave would call it quality mother-daughter bonding.”

She laughs weakly, not her real laugh, but as good as I’m going to get. “Well, we have to do what Dave wants, don’t we?”

“Hey, you hired him, Mom.”

She smiles at me, a small but tender smile, and says, “All right. I think it will do us both good to get out of the house.” Like the whole expedition was her idea.

It’s raining in Memphis. We’ve had a long day’s drive and a night in a cheap-but-fairly-clean Super 8 Motel on the edge of town, and now we’ve finally arrived at our final destination. The sky is a hard gray, an icy drizzle fracturing on the windshield as we pull into the parking lot. For a minute we sit in the car with the heater blowing in our faces and look up at the sign.

GRACELAND

My mom’s always been an Elvis fan. He died on August 16, 1977, which just happened to be my mother’s eighth birthday. She still remembered hearing the news about his death on the radio right after she blew out her birthday candles. From that point on she grew up feeling a connection between herself and the King of Rock and Roll. So Tyler and I grew up with Elvis, too. We heard “All Shook Up” when she was trying to make us laugh and “Blue Suede Shoes” when she was feeling sassy, and sometimes, on their anniversary or Valentine’s Day, we’d catch her dancing to “Love Me Tender” with Dad. The week after Dad left, I kept hearing Elvis’s mournful croon muffled from behind her bedroom door as she played that song again and again.

Elvis was the soundtrack to her life and, by extension, mine.

“I’ve always wanted to come here,” she says.

I know.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go in.”

When we get inside, we’re both shocked at the prices for the tour. There are three options: the basic mansion tour, which is thirty-three dollars; the “platinum” tour, where you can see Elvis’s airplanes and cars and a few extra exhibits for thirty-seven dollars; and the Graceland Elvis Entourage VIP Tour, which is everything from the first two tours with an extra private tour, front-of-the-line access, an all-day pass to the grounds and mansion, and a special keepsake backstage pass.