Chapter 9: Not a Real Marsden

Nobody answered me.

Mom stared at the porch boards.

Dad's grip on her arm had gone white at the knuckles.

"Took me in when?" I said again.

"Your mother is tired," Dad said. "It's a long drive. She misspoke."

"I didn't misspeak," Mom whispered.

"Stop talking," Dad said to her, very low.

I had never heard him use that voice on her.

Maisie was holding my hand, and I could feel how tightly.

"Say it plainly, Mom."

"I meant when you were little," she said. "You cried so much. We took you in our arms. That's all I meant."

Nobody on that porch believed her, including her.

Dad turned her toward the stairs.

"We're going," he said. "Call us when you're ready to behave."

They went down to the car, and Mom did not look back.

Regina stayed where she was.

She had knelt on the boards when she reached for Maisie and had not yet stood up.

"Cedric," she said quietly. "I heard what she said."

"I know you did."

"I'm going to find out what she meant."

"Don't do me favors."

"It isn't a favor. I owe you something I can't pay back. I'd like to try."

She got to her feet, wiped her face with her sleeve, and walked down the steps.

I shut the door.

I looked at the chain still hanging against the frame, and then at my daughter.

"Are they going away now?" Maisie asked.

"Yes."

"For good?"

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