Chương 9
The smell of cinnamon candles.
The wet stem of the wineglass in my hand.
“What else?”
“She said something about how Evan should have married someone more maternal.”
My jaw tightened.
“That sounds like her.”
“You told her to get out of your kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“She laughed.”
I could hear the laugh again.
Not loud.
Worse than loud.
The little amused breath Diane used when she wanted me to feel childish.
“And then?”
“You threw the glass into the sink.”
“Not at her.”
“No.”
“Was she near it?”
“Not really.”
“How far away?”
“I don’t know.”
“Caroline.”
“I don’t know, Mara.”
Her voice rose.
“Six feet?”
“Maybe.”
“Could it have hit her?”
“If you threw it differently.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
She went quiet.
I immediately regretted the sharpness in my voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re scared.”
“Yes.”
“So is Evan.”
That irritated me more than it should have.
“Evan wasn’t the one slapped at dinner.”
“No.”
“Lily was.”
“I know.”
“And then he defended his mother.”
“I know.”
Caroline lowered her voice.
“But he’s still my nephew.”
There it was.
The thing Helen had warned me about.
People did not become neutral simply because facts became ugly.
Family had gravity.
“I’m not asking you to choose me.”
“It feels like you are.”
“I’m asking you to tell the truth.”
“That sounds cleaner when lawyers say it.”
I rubbed my thumb against a loose thread on Rachel’s comforter.
“What does it sound like to you?”
“It sounds like if I say Diane is lying, half my family stops speaking to me.”
I had no good answer for that.
Caroline continued.
“And if I say you were violent, maybe you lose your daughter.”
Her voice broke slightly on the last word.
“That’s what I mean by being in the middle.”
I swallowed.
“What do you believe happened?”
“At Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“You lost your temper.”
I pressed my lips together.
“You threw something.”
“Yes.”
“That scared me.”
I opened my eyes.
It had not occurred to me that Caroline might have been frightened.
I had been so focused on whether the glass had endangered Diane that I had never considered the other person in the room.
“I’m sorry.”
This time Caroline did not challenge it.
She said, “But you did not throw it at Diane.”
I let out a breath.
“And yesterday?”
“I saw Diane hit Lily.”
“Would you say that if somebody asked you under oath?”
Caroline exhaled slowly.
“Yes.”
I lowered my head.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Her tone sharpened again.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
She sounded tired now.
“Diane has been my sister for fifty-eight years.”
I said nothing.
“She practically raised me after our father left.”
That was new.
Diane had mentioned their father rarely and never kindly.
Caroline continued.
“She can be cruel.”
A pause.
“She can also be the person who drives three hours at midnight when nobody else comes.”
I thought of all the times Diane had shown up with groceries when Lily was sick.
The winter Evan had pneumonia, she slept on our couch for two nights and made soup nobody wanted.
Human beings were inconvenient that way.
They refused to become simple just because simplicity would help your case.
“I’m not asking you to say she’s evil.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking you to say what happened.”
Caroline’s voice softened.
“That I can do.”
After we hung up, I stayed on the bed for several minutes.
Lily’s socks were drying over the radiator because Rachel had accidentally washed a red dish towel with her clothes and turned everything faintly pink.
One sock had slipped to the floor.
I picked it up.
The ordinary softness of it made my chest ache.
My phone rang again.
This time it was my mother.
I stared at her name.
I had not told her anything.
That meant someone else had.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Mara, what is going on?”
No hello.
No warm-up.
I closed my eyes.
“Who called you?”
“Diane.”
Of course.
“What did she say?”
“That you attacked her at dinner and ran away with Lily.”
I laughed once.
My mother did not.
“Did you?”
“I hit Evan and shoved Diane after Diane slapped Lily.”
Silence.
Then my mother said, “She hit Lily?”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“Her hand.”
“Where?”
“Her face.”
Another silence.
My mother’s breathing changed.
“She put her hand on my granddaughter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Lily mispronounced birthday.”
My mother said something under her breath in Spanish.
I understood only half of it, but none sounded charitable.
Then she switched back to English.
“And Evan?”
“He froze.”
“Meaning?”
“He watched.”
Another Spanish phrase.
Longer this time.
“Mom.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No, I am not going to calm down.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You were about to.”
I almost smiled.
She knew me too well.
Then her voice shifted.
“What did you do after?”
“I left.”
“Good.”
“With Lily.”
“Obviously.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Evan filed for emergency custody.”
She stopped breathing for a second.
Then she said, very quietly, “Where are you?”
“I’m safe.”
“I asked where.”
“I’m staying with a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“Rachel.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“No.”
“You have a two-year-old and a court case.”
“I also have a place to sleep.”
My mother was silent.
Then, in the tone she used when pretending not to be offended, she said, “Fine.”
The word meant nothing was fine.
“I need you not to call Diane.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Or Evan.”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“I heard you.”
“That wasn’t an agreement.”
“I am sixty-two years old.”
“That is not an agreement either.”
She sighed.
“Fine.”
“You promise?”
Another pause.
“I promise I will not call them today.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Today?”
“One promise at a time.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“You are impossible.”
“So I have been told.”
I could hear her moving around her kitchen.
A cabinet opened.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“You said you weren’t coming.”
“I said I would not call them.”
May you like
“Mom.”
“I am driving to Rachel’s.”
