PART 11

PART 11

Teresa said something I couldn’t hear.

Allison answered.

“No. Don’t come tonight.”

Another pause.

“I know. I know you warned me.”

My stomach tightened.

Warned her?

About me?

I backed away from the bedroom door before she could hear me.

I went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table.

The house was completely quiet except for the refrigerator humming.

Mateo made a tiny sound from the bedroom.

Then silence again.

I stared at the casserole.

It was still sitting in the refrigerator.

I took it out.

For some reason, I put it in the microwave.

Then I stood there watching it spin I thought about my mother.

When I was eight, my little sister had the flu. My mother had worked a twelve-hour shift, come home, made soup, cleaned the bathroom, washed sheets, and still packed my lunch for school.

My father had sat at the table and complained that the chicken was dry.

I remembered him saying, “Your mother always gets dramatic when she’s tired.”

I remembered my mother laughing afterward.

But now, sitting alone in my kitchen, I wondered if she had actually been laughing.

Maybe she had simply learned not to cry in front of us.

The microwave beeped.

I jumped.

I opened the door and stared at the casserole.

I didn’t want it.

But I ate it anyway.

At 12:17, I heard the bedroom door open.

Allison came downstairs carrying Mateo.

Her face looked pale.

She didn’t look at me.

She walked straight to the couch.

I stood up.

“Who were you talking to?”

She stopped.

“Mom.”

“What did you tell her?”

She looked at me then.

Her eyes were red.

“The truth.”

I felt something hot rise in my chest.

“You made me sound like some kind of monster.”

“No.”

“You told her everything.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t tell her what happened at the hospital.”

Her expression changed.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I was there.”

“I know.”

“I stayed with you.”

She stared at me.

“You stayed in the room.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you were physically there.”

I waited.

She continued.

“You weren’t there for me.”

I laughed.

It was a nervous laugh.

“I held your hand.”

“You held my leg because the nurse told you to.”

“I cut the cord.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t leave.”

“You left after they took Mateo to the nursery.”

“I was exhausted.”

“I know.”

Her voice was so calm that it made me angry.

“You slept in the chair while I was being stitched back together.”

I didn’t answer.

“You complained about the coffee.”

“I was tired.”

“You told the nurse she was taking too long.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You asked when we could go home.”

I looked away.

She shifted Mateo against her chest.

“I remember all of it.”