had burdens too heavy to carry, and who knew she’d never be able to set them down, and lifted her fork to cut a sliver of white meat from the slice of turkey she’d set on her plate. Jo picked up her own fork and knife. Bethie was still in the bathroom, trying to save Mrs. Stein’s dress. The Stein boys were all eating quietly. At the far end of the table, Bubbe and Zayde had their heads together and were murmuring in Yiddish, and Barbara Simoneaux seemed too shocked to even breathe.
Across the table, Henry Sheshevsky, her father’s old friend, gave Jo a sympathetic look. Jo missed her father so much in that moment, she felt such a deep, sorrowful ache that she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to breathe. Gently, she set down her own silverware and looked at her mother.
“Why don’t you just be honest,” Jo said. “Say you hate me. That’s the truth, right?”
“Hey, so who thinks the Tigers could go all the way this year?” asked Henry Sheshevsky, his voice loud and hearty. Jo kept talking.
“I can’t cook. I won’t do my hair. I hate wearing dresses. I’d rather hit a ball or shoot a basket than prance around a stage and sing. I’m not the daughter of your dreams, but I’m the only one in this family who even misses him.” Jo knew it wasn’t true, knew that Bethie, at least, missed their father, but it was as if some demon had taken possession of her tongue. She couldn’t have stopped talking if she’d wanted to.
“That’s a lie!” Sarah’s voice was high and trembling.
Jo stood up, hands clenched. “I’ll bet you wish I was the one who died. Or maybe both of us. That way, it’d just be you and your perfect little princess.”
Bethie, who was just coming back to the living room, gasped. Jo saw her mother stand up, pulling her hand back. She felt time slowing down as she saw her mother’s lips press together until they’d all but disappeared. As Sarah’s body turned, Jo could have leaned back, or run, or even turned her face away, but she didn’t. She just stood there, frozen and immobile, knowing what was coming and unable to avoid it.
The sound of her mother’s palm on her cheek was like an explosion. It was the first time her mother had struck her in anger since that awful day they’d fought about Mae.
For a moment, Jo stood, unmoving, feeling the blood rush to her face. She could see the people at the table, but it was like she was looking up at them from the bottom of a lake. Their faces and voices were distorted and seemed very far away.
“You’re a bitch,” she finally said, and she heard Barbara Simoneaux gasp. Bubbe said something short and sharp in Yiddish.
“Here, now!” Henry Sheshevsky roared. “Here, now! That’s enough!”
Sarah raised her chin. “And do you know what you are?” she asked. “You think I don’t know about you?” Sarah had dropped her voice to a whisper, low and dangerous. “You think I don’t know about you and your little girlfriend? You’re unnatural.”
Jo felt like she’d been thrown into a frozen river. Her chest was tight, her mind was whirling. What did her mother know? What had she seen? Had Lynnette’s brothers told their parents, and had the Bobecks called the house and told Sarah? Or was her mother just guessing, stitching together supposition and paranoia, and coming up with the worst? Except, Jo thought, the worst was true. Something was wrong with her. She was broken, she was twisted, she was unnatural, like her mother had said. She would never be fixed or made right.
Jo turned and ran, only this time, instead of going to her bedroom, she went to the front door. The car keys were on the credenza. She grabbed them, jumped behind the wheel of the car, and backed out of the driveway, burning rubber as she stomped on the gas. She hit fifty miles per hour on her way down Evergreen Terrace, and turned onto Route 10. Route 10 would take her to I-75, which would take her to the Windsor Tunnel, down underneath Lake Erie. Her father used to drive through the tunnel with her, having her watch for the dividing line that showed when they’d passed from the United States into Canada. Jo would always hold her breath, imagining that she’d be able to tell, that something would feel different when she