Page 82 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“Lucas, can you get Jack’s high chair set up in the living room?”

“Sure thing, my love.” Lucas kisses me on the forehead and covertly squeezes my butt. My heart races and my cheeks flush. I’ve had that same reaction to him since I was young, and I don’t think that will ever go away.

“Cook, potatoes, cook,” Marissa says to her pan of hash browns like she’s a lieutenant in the culinary division.

“They’re looking good,” I say, serving the fried eggs and seared sausages onto several plates.

“She’s going to be on soon,” Marissa says, almost in a panic.

I take the spatula from her. “Go ahead and get the TV ready. I’ll finish the hash browns.”

“Thanks, Mom,” she says as she races toward the living room.

Steam rises off our delicious, artery-clogging, dopamine-releasing delights as we hunker down and wait for the segment. All of a sudden, onscreen, there she is, my sister. Tears fill my eyes, and a smile spreads across my face.

“Good morning, America. I’m Rebecca Sanford, and today, I’m pleased to have a special guest with us. Nicole Thomas is the bestselling author of the memoirHome Is Where the Bodies Are, where she recounts her harrowing and horrific experience of a family bogged down by the sins of some of its members. Nicole, thank you very much for being here today.”

We’re glued to the screen, anxious to hear what comes next. Lucas, Marissa, and I all read her book—not that we needed to, we knew every word that would be in it. When she came to ask me how I felt about her sharing our story with the world, I was more than happy to let her have that catharsis. Plus, I knew she’d tell it well. Nicole hasn’t relapsed again. She’s stayed strong and become a writer like she always wanted to be. She and Casey are dating too. I wish Mom could see her. See us. She’d be so proud.

As I scan the room and watch my daughter smiling, delighted for her aunt, and my husband bouncing our son on his knee, I can’t help but reflect on what our parents did. They weren’t bad people. They were good, and they loved with every ounce of their being. They wanted the best for their kids. All parents want that. But they made poor decisions in an effort to protect their children. They were human, and they were flawed. Sometimes we do the wrong thing for all the right reasons. I don’t blame my parents or hate them for what they did. Because as I look at my own children, I know I would do the exact same thing for them.

FORTY-EIGHT

NICOLE

The lights on set are brighter than I thought they’d be, but then again, light has never shined very bright on me before. My skin warms underneath them. I pull at my skirt, readjusting and straightening it before I take a seat. A man stands between two oversized cameras, pointed directly at me. He holds his hand up and starts a countdown, indicating when we’ll be live again. Rebecca, one of theGood Morning Americacohosts, sits kitty-corner to me, dressed in a tailored pencil skirt and matching blazer. Her shiny blond hair stops right at her shoulders, and she’s perfectly polished from head to toe. She’s stunning. Even her knees look amazing. A makeup artist dabs a brush dusted with powder along Rebecca’s T-zone while she reviews her cue cards. The artist offers me a touch-up as well, but I decline.

“You ready?” the cohost asks, flashing a pearly white smile at me.

I nod.

“Remember, we’re just having a conversation. Don’t be nervous,” she says.

“I’m not.”

I spent my whole life being nervous up until I realized that life happens in between the beats of our own heart, and if it thumps too fast, there’s no space for us to live.

The man between the cameras calls out, “And we’re live in five, four...” and silently his fingers mark three, two, and then he points at Rebecca, who introduces me, smiling as she speaks. She says, “Nicole, thank you very much for being here today.”

“Thank you for having me, Rebecca.”

“Of course. So, tell us a little more about your novel.”

“Yeah, sure.” I want to correct her, explain that it’s not a novel, but I don’t. “Home Is Where the Bodies Areis about life, my life to be exact. But I think we all endure similar experiences, in a way, maybe not the same ones I have, but there are universal themes. It’s about death, grief, regret, the things we need in life, and the things life needs from us. It’s about love with and without conditions. It’s about addiction and healing. But most of all, it’s about family. What it means to be one, what it means to have one, and what it means to lose one.”

“Well, I read it and loved it. It’s riveting.”

I politely smile back at her. It’s only riveting if you haven’t lived it.

“So, three years ago, you found out your parents covered up a murder that your brother committed back in 1999. How did that feel?” she asks.

This is exactly why I should have bit the bullet and paid for a publicist... to ensure questions like this weren’t asked. I let out the smallest sigh to make sure it’s not picked up on the microphone clipped to my blazer.

“It felt like my whole life had been a lie, but knowing the truth made sense of the life I had lived.”

She arches a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that it allowed me to give myself grace. I didn’t excuse myself. But I forgave myself for all the things I’d done wrong, just like I forgave my parents and my brother.”

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