tenderness—that would, finally, save me.
I stared at the blade. Dad began a lecture, pausing often so Mother
could ratify his remarks. I heard voices, among them my own, chanting
harmonies in an ancient hall. I heard laughter, the slosh of wine being
poured from a bottle, the tinkle of butter knives tapping porcelain. I
heard little of my father’s speech, but I remember exactly, as if it were
happening now, being transported over an ocean and back through
three sunsets, to the night I had sung with my friends in the chamber
choir. I must have fallen asleep, I thought. Too much wine. Too much
Christmas turkey.
Having decided I was dreaming, I did what one does in dreams: I
tried to understand and use the rules of this queer reality. I reasoned
with the strange shadows impersonating my family, and when
reasoning failed, I lied. The impostors had bent reality. Now it was my
turn. I told Shawn I hadn’t said anything to Dad. I said things like “I
don’t know how Dad got that idea” and “Dad must have misheard me,”
hoping that if I rejected their percipience, they would simply dissipate.
An hour later, when the four of us were still seated on the sofas, I
finally came to terms with their physical persistence. They were here,
and so was I.
The blood on my hands had dried. The knife lay on the carpet,
forgotten by everyone except me. I tried not to stare at it. Whose was
the blood? I studied my brother. He had not cut himself.
Dad had begun a new lecture, and this time I was present enough to
hear it. He explained that little girls need to be instructed in how to
behave appropriately around men, so as not to be too inviting. He’d
noticed indecent habits in my sister’s daughters, the oldest of whom
was six. Shawn was calm. He had been worn down by the sheer
duration of Dad’s droning. More than that, he felt protected, justified,
so that when the lecture finally ended he said to me, “I don’t know
what you said to Dad tonight, but I can tell just by looking at you that
I’ve hurt you. And I’m sorry.”
We hugged. We laughed like we always did after a fight. I smiled at
him like I’d always done, like she would have. But she wasn’t there, and
the smile was a fake.
—I WENT TO MY ROOM and shut the door, quietly sliding the bolt, and called