Chương 8
In the backyard, when Marcus’s face changed from certainty to disbelief, something inside Sarah had reacted.
Not joy.
Something uglier.
Recognition.
For a fraction of a second, she had enjoyed taking control from a man who believed it belonged to him.
She had hated herself for that almost immediately.
“A little,” she said.
Lily’s head lifted.
Sarah nodded once.
“And I’m not proud of that.”
Lily studied her.
“Why did you tell me?”
“Because you asked.”
That evening Rachel appeared at the house without calling.
Sarah saw her through the doorbell camera and nearly left the door closed.
Then Rachel lifted a white bakery box toward the lens.
“I brought the lemon things you like,” she called.
Sarah opened the door.
“That’s manipulative.”
“I know.”
Rachel looked exhausted.
The polished version of her from Saturday was gone. She wore jeans, flat sandals, and a gray cardigan despite the warm evening.
“Can I come in?”
Sarah stepped aside.
Rachel walked to the kitchen and put the box on the counter.
“Where’s Lily?”
“Upstairs.”
“Good.”
“That depends on what you came to say.”
Rachel flinched.
“Can we not start like this?”
“How should we start?”
“I don’t know. Hello?”
“Hello.”
Rachel stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
It lasted only a second.
Sarah did too.
That made everything worse.
Rachel’s eyes filled.
She turned away.
“Damn it.”
Sarah took two plates from the cabinet.
“You brought pastry during a crisis.”
“Mom used to.”
“Yes.”
“She also used butter like she had a personal grudge against arteries.”
Sarah cut one of the lemon bars in half.
Rachel sat at the table.
For a minute they ate without speaking.
The bar was too sweet.
Sarah ate it anyway.
Rachel folded the paper napkin into smaller and smaller squares.
Finally she said, “Marcus has lost three corporate accounts at the gym.”
Sarah kept chewing.
“Two trainers quit. Somebody spray-painted coward on the back door.”
“That shouldn’t happen.”
“No.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Rachel looked up.
Sarah set down the fork.
“I want him accountable for what he did. I don’t want strangers terrorizing your family.”
Rachel looked toward the stairs.
“Dad says the distinction doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Warren says a lot.”
“He hired a crisis firm.”
“Of course he did.”
“They want Marcus to stop posting.”
“That would be wise.”
“He won’t.”
“Less wise.”
Rachel rubbed her forehead.
“He thinks if he explains enough, people will understand.”
Sarah thought about that.
“Understand what?”
“That he didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“Who you were.”
Sarah stared.
Rachel lifted both hands.
“I know.”
“No, say it.”
“He says if he had known you were trained, he wouldn’t have challenged you.”
“Then what?”
Rachel looked down.
“He would’ve challenged someone else?”
Silence answered.
Sarah pushed the plate away.
Rachel whispered, “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I said I know.”
“You laughed.”
Rachel’s face changed.
Sarah had not planned to say it.
That was why the words came out so cleanly.
“You laughed when he threw the gloves.”
Rachel sat very still.
“You stood there,” Sarah continued, “holding your wine, and you smiled.”
“I thought he was being stupid.”
“So did I.”
“I didn’t think he would actually hit you.”
“He threatened me.”
“Marcus says things.”
“He said it to Lily.”
Rachel looked toward the stairs.
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth would be interesting.”
Rachel stood.
“Oh, screw you.”
Sarah stood too.
“No. You came here.”
“Yes, because I’m trying.”
“To do what?”
“To stop my family from collapsing.”
“I’m your family.”
Rachel’s mouth closed.
Sarah felt the old anger come up hot and immediate.
“I was your family Saturday too.”
“You’re always my family.”
“Then why was humiliating me funny?”
Rachel stared.
A tear slipped down one cheek.
She wiped it away angrily.
“Because for once you looked like you might not be better than everybody.”
The kitchen went quiet.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Rachel closed her eyes.
“There,” she said. “You wanted it.”
Sarah did not know what she had expected.
Not that.
Rachel sat again.
Her voice dropped.
“You come to things. You’re polite. You help clean up. You remember everybody’s birthdays. You never ask for anything. You never complain. You don’t need anybody.”
“That’s not true.”
“It feels true.”
Sarah leaned against the counter.
Rachel laughed bitterly.
“Do you know what Mom used to say about you?”
Sarah’s jaw tightened.
“Probably something I don’t want to know.”
“She said, ‘Sarah will be okay.’”
The sentence entered the room softly.
It carried thirty years.
Rachel looked at the crumpled napkin in her hands.
“When Dad left, you’d be okay. When money was bad, you’d be okay. When you joined the Army, you’d be okay. When Mom got sick, you’d be okay. When she died, you’d be okay.”
Sarah looked down.
Rachel’s voice broke.
“And me? Everyone worried about me. I was the fragile one. The needy one. The one who stayed.”
“You did stay.”
“Yes.”
“I should have been there more.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Sarah pulled out the chair opposite her.
“I should have.”
Rachel looked at her.
Sarah swallowed.
“I used the Army as an excuse sometimes.”
Rachel’s brow furrowed.
“You were deployed.”
“Not every time.”
Rachel did not speak.
Sarah continued.
“When Mom got worse, I had leave I could have requested sooner.”
Rachel stared at her.
“I thought you said—”
“I told myself my unit needed me.”
“Did they?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not the same as—”
“I know.”
Rachel’s anger returned slowly.
“You let me think you couldn’t come.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Sarah looked at the lemon bar.
Because hospitals frightened her more than deployments.
Because their mother had become small beneath white sheets.
Because Sarah could function around danger but not helplessness.
Because she had been ashamed of that.
“I was a coward.”
Rachel recoiled.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t give me some dramatic confession so I have to comfort you.”
May you like
Sarah almost argued.
Then stopped.
