Chapter Twenty-Three
Black Cherry Chocolate
My parents expected that I would die young. I had a heart murmur when I was born and in the sixties, the doctors believed it was a congenital heart defect, and I would not survive childhood. Don’t get too attached, they suggested, in a not-at-all callous, detached medical way: She’s not gonna be a long-term investment, tell ya’ what, not gonna be a going concern. Dad’s response to my impending demise was to spoil me: “Want a pony? I’ll make that happen.” Dad decided to make happy memories for when I was gone, partly because I was expected to die and partly because he was an alcoholic and felt guilty for days after he’d gotten drunk.
Mom, however, was a nurse and remained practical. She told him to stop spoiling me, reasoning that if I died, I
