It was raining the night his mother died. Large, driving drops pelted the windows of the car as their driver brought them to the hospital in New York City.
Anthony knew very little about why his mother was in the hospital. She had gone out two nights before and never returned.
He had heard something about wrapping her car around a tree because she had been hitting the bottle too hard at Ms. Turners. None of that jargon made sense to eight-year-old Anthony.
Years later he would understand—he would understand that his father and mother got into some kind of argument and that his mother had escaped to her best friend's house,
where apparently she had too much too drink, and then attempted to drive home.
But the roads had been slick with the rain and she had hydroplaned and lost control of her car, careening into a very old, very large oak tree. It was amazing she had survived the crash at all.
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