self in one of her endless dumb kimonos.
You should put something on, I think about demanding, stop wearing those dumb things even when company is over. But this whole moment is teetering on something dangerous and I don’t want to be the one to set her off.
“Anyway,” she says, “Mrs. Marcaras made us take all our notes on index cards the entire year, and keep them in order in boxes. All numbered. For the whole entire school year. And everyone else had these ugly green or gray plastic boxes, but leave it to Nana to find me a pretty, pearly set of pink. I remember how pleased she was that day.” She shakes her head, her hair splaying about her shoulders, specks of flour scattered in it like the finest powdered snow. “So, I saved them. Used them for knickknacks and such, all these years…”
Her voice trails off and I hope she won’t add more, but she does, sitting up taller as if the memory has surfaced out of nowhere. “Money,” she says. “All that stupid bonus money your father left me. I shoved it in there, hid the boxes away.” She laughs. “I didn’t want it, JL, did you know that? I’m not even sure I remember where they are.”
My chest squeezes tight. I get up and walk to the fridge, pour myself a glass of juice, and offer her one, but she shakes her head, and gets up, and walks back to the sink. She runs the water, squeezes soap in, drops the bowls, and utensils, and rolling pin into the sink. Chunks of flour cake together, float on the surface like mini icebergs. I stand beside her and watch them as they bounce on waves created by the movement of the dishes.
“You’re sure Dad’s coming home? This month?” I finally brave the words, and it’s only when I say them directly, out loud, that I feel the deep longing in my chest, the hope and excitement at the prospect of my father coming home to us for good. Like I used to feel in the early days when he’d visit.
I wait for her to answer. When she doesn’t, I turn to her.
“Mom,” I say more forcefully, “are you sure he’s coming home?”
“What?” Her expression has fallen, as if an unseen eraser has passed over the face of the woman who was standing there a minute ago.
“Dad. Coming home. End of June. First week in July, latest.”
“Did I say that?” she asks.
“Um, yeah.” I drop my empty glass in the sink, a rage moving up through me, erupting sour, bitter, in the back of my throat. The smell of burning sugar wafts from the oven; the sound of something sizzling emanates from within.
Mom looks back at me, her face confused, her eyes blank, yet filled with fear. She wrings her hands. “Oh, yes, that’s right,” she says. “Your father called me, right? He told me. I remember.”
And I know.
I slip an oven mitt from the drawer and move toward the oven, but she takes it from me, and pulls out the pie herself.
“Shit, shit!” she whispers, dropping it hard on the counter as if she’s somehow managed to burn herself.
She tosses the mitt in the drawer, and stands forlornly in front of the not-loganberry not-a-tart pie, its edges half-burnt, her eyes filled with tears.
“The truth is,” she says, shoving the pie into the water-filled sink, and watching it disappear under the dirty, soapy water, “I really have no idea.”
MID-JUNE INTO LATE JUNE
TENTH GRADE
I slip the blue sheath over my head, adjust the belt, and stand in front of the mirror, pulling my hair up into a messy sort of cascading bun. I put on gold ballet flats, and small gold heart earrings, and stare at myself in the mirror.
I wish Aubrey were here. I wish she were going with me. I wish she could tell me whether to do the belt higher or lower, whether to leave my hair down or up like this.
A brief flutter ripples in my chest, and a smile spreads on my lips, because maybe she knows and she’s jealous. But it fades as quickly, and a wave of dread washes over me. Aubrey and I were supposed to go through this together.
* * *
The bell rings promptly at 6:00 p.m. I slip off the dress, and pull on shorts and a T-shirt. I don’t need to get a stain on it before we leave.
By the time I get out there, my mother has