Chapter 23: The House

The kitchen light in the Magnolia house was on at three in the morning.

I had not been inside since the night of the hearing.

My mother sat at the table in her gray gala dress, with her shoes off.

A suitcase stood by the back door.

A kettle ticked on the stove, and three cups waited on the counter.

"Sit," she said.

Kit went to the stove and poured.

I sat.

The table was the same oak table I had done homework on.

My father's chair stood at the head of it, pushed in.

Nobody looked at it.

"I am going to say this once," my mother said. "Then you can say whatever you want."

"Mom..."

"Let me."

I let her.

She folded her hands on the table.

"I hit you in front of forty people," she said.

"I took your brother's side before I knew there were sides."

"I called you cold, in my own head, for years."

"Mom."

"You were thirteen, standing on the bottom rung of a ladder with your hands up."

"I told myself it was the television."

"I let you be the strong one, because it was easier than asking what it cost."

Her voice did not shake.

"I am sorry," she said.

"I'm not asking you to say it's all right."

"I'm only telling you I know it isn't."

I looked at the tablecloth.

It was the yellow one with the lemons, the same one.

"Thank you," I said.

"That's all?"

"For now, yes."

"What do you want?"

I took a long breath.

I had practiced this in the dark for thirty years, and now that she asked, it was short.

"Three things," I said.

"Tell me."

"You testify, in every room they put you in."

"You say the clinic papers were forged."

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