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that little shit. It sounds like drugs to me.
    KZailckas: I’ve never seen the Lark taking drugs.
    RZailckas: Maybe it was . . . what’s that drug what’s his name’s son had a problem with?
    KZailckas: He doesn’t take crystal meth.
    RZailckas: That’s it. Crystal meth. Hold on, I’m Googling the warning signs for crystal meth.
    KZailckas: I feel like all this came right out of the blue.
    KZailckas: Like a meteor just dropped on my head.
    RZailckas: Here we go . . . “Loss of appetite and weight loss.”
    KZailckas: He definitely didn’t want me to stay here in Brighton.
    RZailckas: “Aggression. Dilated pupils. Rapid speech.”
    RZailckas: “Over-confidence. Changes in dress, friends and slang. Drug paraphernalia like light bulbs and glass straws, known as ‘lollies’ and ‘popeye.’ ”
    RZailckas: How did he act this morning?
    KZailckas: Remorseful, also kind of shell-shocked, mortified.
    RZailckas: Have you slept yet?
    KZailckas: Not a wink.
    KZailckas: I’m still in survival mode. I’m not even tired.
    Â 
    Turns out, my ill temper isn’t father-specific. We’ve barely hit the Mass Pike when the little black mutt with a wrinkled brow and big, commiserative eyes tries to curl into my lap. Now, I should note that I like dogs, and when I visit my parents, I usually let the hot-breathed critters curl up in my bed three at a time. But something in the beast makes me recoil, and I shove the dog away with such fierce revulsion that I see my father wince in profile, and the car swerves a little in its lane.
    The strength of my reaction surprises even me. But for the next three months this violent reaction will happen every time some gentle sap (beast or brethren) tries to cheer or, worse yet, console me.

    My parents’ house is more or less as I remember it. A rustic retreat, with fruit in the trees and potpourri on the stove. Its windows are open to the orchestra of late summer. The familiarity of the place should comfort me. But I’m averse to solace and all of its condescension (“you’re better off this way,” “you deserve so much better,” “the slouch isn’t fit to shine your shoes”). Homecoming feels like vinegar in the wound. It’s a reminder of my failures: failure of foresight; failure to survive abroad; failure to love and be loved.
    Curling into my childhood bed feels like a regression. All my life I’ve avoided relying on others or, even more, asking for help. I’ve thought of myself as self-contained, self-supporting, freewheeling, nonaligned. I’d give anything to be back in New York, where I might crumple without anyone seeing.

    Later that night, in “my” bedroom, I’m staring at the contents of my unzipped suitcase when my mother comes in.
    She’s fresh from a nap and pajamaed in loose linen pants, her rust-colored hair pulled into a ponytail. Even in her middle fifties, she has bright, almost girlish features. Her heart-shaped face is as smooth and fair as anything in your china cabinet. She sinks onto the bed and goes about patting the small blond dog that’s camouflaged in the quilts. She talks for a minute about how lucky I was to see the Lark’s true colors when I did. Her words are astringent, her assessment unsparing.
    â€œI know you feel bad,” she says with a certain sad shyness in her voice, suggesting she might share my experience. I vaguely remember a story my uncle told me about how, in her early twenties, a philandering boyfriend had left my smitten mom and married someone else.
    â€œAs time goes on, you’ll feel better. But I won’t lie to you. This will always hurt,” she says.
    There’s a certain shock, a shiver, when it becomes clear that a confidante is reenacting some past ordeal. I sense I am filling the role of my mother thirty years ago. It isn’t her fault. I’m ripe for projection. My