stretch piecrust and splash flour, performing her dizzying domestic dance. I envied her ability to bake biscuits while dictating legal briefs, change diapers while phoning an opposing counsel, interview caterers and murderers within the same hour. Susan’s moods fluctuated, and she never completely focused on one thing or settled in one place, but meals made it to her table on time, and her hair always shone. Whenever an aspect of life overwhelmed me, I found myself drawn to her. Today, I needed her. I needed to feel her energy build, erupt, and settle onto dinner plates.

But at that moment, Susan seemed removed, even annoyed. I waited. She said nothing, threw more flour at the dough.

“Well,” I finally said. “Don’t you have anything else to say?”

“What’s to say, Zoe? What should I say?”

“What do you mean, what’s to say? I’ve just had a completely horrible, bizarre day.”

“Oh, Zoe,” she snapped. “For godsakes. Your day was not all that bizarre. From where I sit, finding a finger on your front porch is pretty standard stuff.”

“Right, Susan. It happens every day. Comes with the daily paper.” She didn’t answer.

“How can you say that?” I kept at her. “Your idea of ‘standard stuff’ is pretty warped.”

She squinted, still silent, still rolling.

“Well, it is,” I persisted. “Not that it’s your fault. You spend every day with the scum of the earth, with crime and criminals. Your work’s affected your thinking.”

She shrugged. “On the other hand, maybe my work shows me how normal this is. I see stuff like this all the time. And worse.”

“Really? Well, if it’s so normal, how would you feel if it was your child?” My voice was rising. “What if Emily brought home some detached body part?”

She looked up at me and blinked condescendingly. “I’m not saying it’s normal. But it happens. It wouldn’t faze me.”

“It wouldn’t faze you? If Emily walked in holding somebody’s finger?”

“I don’t think it—”

“—or nose—”

“—would. No.”

“—or an ear? Or penis? How about a nipple? Would a nipple faze you?”

“Okay, I’d be upset. But I wouldn’t be fazed.”

I sipped some tea. “You’ve been in your job too long.”

“Maybe so.” She put down her rolling pin, set her jaw, and brushed her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of flour. We faced each other in charged silence, each wanting validation from the other, each unable or unwilling at the moment to validate.

My eyes burned, head ached. I stared at her folded hands, the emerald rings crusted with dough, the floured manicure.

“Look, Zoe.” She pushed flour-streaked hair behind her ear.

“You know I love you. But for all your brilliance and creativity, you can be really clueless.” “Meaning?”

“Meaning that you completely deny the parts of reality that you don’t like. For years—since your divorce, you’ve lived in your little bubble where everything is just as you want it to be. Gentle and fluffy and nurturing. And now, when reality shatters your illusion, you get upset. The truth is that people do cruel and horrible things. There are six homicides in Philadelphia every single week. Not to mention the rapes, robberies, and assaults. But that’s not new. What’s new is that you’ve noticed it. You’ve finally looked beyond your bubble and seen what’s been there all along. Welcome to the world.” She pressed dough into the tin, punctuating her words.

I closed my eyes. What could I say? I had no defense. There was a lot of truth in what she’d said. I did try to protect myself and my daughter from the ugly parts of life. Was that so wrong? Once again, I saw Detective Stiles pick up the finger and drop it into the Baggie. Thwap. I opened my eyes. Susan dumped the bowl of apples into the tin and slapped the rest of the dough on top.

“Sorry,” she barked. “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that’s how I see it.”

I watched her cut off the extra crust and squeeze the excess into her fist. She moved abruptly, without tenderness. Susan was ferocious. Not her usual self.

“So,” I asked, “what’s wrong?”

“Who said anything was wrong?” she snapped. Then she relaxed, lowering her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Zoe. Everything’s wrong. Tim’s traveling again, so I’m the only parent again this month. Bonita’s got final exams, so she’s not sitting regular hours. I’m up to my ears in lunches and laundry and homework and car pools and baths. And a huge caseload—three felony cases. That means three people will go to jail if I mess up.” She threw