did it occur to me that whatever damage was done that night might not
have been done solely by me. And it was more than a year before I
understood what should have been immediately apparent: that my
mother had not confronted my father, and my father had not
confronted Shawn. Dad had never promised to help me and Audrey.
Mother had lied.
Now, when I reflect on my mother’s words, remembering the way
they appeared as if by magic on the screen, one detail stands above the
rest: that Mother described my father as bipolar. It was the exact
disorder that I myself suspected. It was my word, not hers. Then I
wonder if perhaps my mother, who had always reflected so perfectly
the will of my father, had that night merely been reflecting mine.
No, I tell myself. They were her words. But hers or not, those words,
which had so comforted and healed me, were hollow. I don’t believe
they were faithless, but sincerity failed to give them substance, and
they were swept away by other, stronger currents.