But she wouldn’t let me. She grabbed my hands and said, “You do know.” She told me to
start talking, and it didn’t have to make sense, but that I had to talk. I did, sitting on the dirty
hotel rug, I talked, except for the part about you.I’m not sure how legible I was, but my mother
seemed to put the pieces together. She said she wassorry. For the horrible thing I did, that she
said she should have done so I didn’t have to. Shesaid I saved her life. I don’t know if that’s true
or not.
I have no way of knowing if my father would haveended up killing her that night. All I
knew was that was the third time in a week he hadbegun hitting her, but it was the first time they
took the fight outside. Surrounded by Virginia foresta mile on each side, no neighbors would
hear. The same front yard he was dragging my motheracross, was the same front yard he and I
played softball in, lit sparklers on July 4th in,had snowball fights in. He was funny sometimes
and let me feed the vegetables on my plate to thedog when Mama wasn’t looking. I loved my
father but I still shot him. Sometimes I miss him,and I know my mom does too, but we never
talk about it. I guess everyone has a loved one thatshouldn’t be loved anymore. I don’t want to
be that person for you.
2 October 1969 The Montvale Hotel 1005 W 1st Ave,Spokane, WA 99201-4003
Kate. My mother didn’t shoot my father. I lied aboutthat. I’ve lied to everyone about
that. The only thing true about her sentencing isthat it was both manslaughter and voluntary,
except she didn’t do it. When it happened, she waslying in the dirt of our driveway, my hulking
mass of a father rearing his fist back, and then thegunshot. The bullet missed but he jerked back
and stared at me, sweat dripping down his foreheadand scratches from my mother’s fingernails
down his cheek. Then another gunshot, right in thegut. He looked down at it and then stumbled