Freaky Green Eyes by Joyce Carol Oates

“Vicky is eager to see all of us,” Mom said. “It’s been a while.” I was feeling guilty about Aunt Vicky but didn’t know what to say. I wondered if Mom knew how Vicky had called me, and e-mailed me, and I’d never answered. I decided no, probably Mom didn’t know; Aunt Vicky would not have told her, because to tell Mom would be to indicate that she, Mom’s older sister, was concerned about her. And that meant she’d been concerned about Dad. How Mom and Dad were getting along together. I imagined Mom telling Aunt Vicky, Things are fine! I imagined Aunt Vicky gripping Mom’s shoulders in her strong hands and giving Mom a little shake and saying, Krista, tell me the truth .
    Beyond that I couldn’t imagine.
    Mom must have seen a look in my face. I guess my emotions show like ripples in water, and she said,“Vicky loves Skagit Harbor too. She’s going to stay for two weeks in August, in a bed-and-breakfast, if she can get away.” Mom paused, smiling tentatively. “Vicky has been a little worried about us. I mean—concerned. She has the idea that things are different between your father and me, and really—they are not .”
    Samantha said, “But, Mom—”
    Mom said, “No, really. Things are not changed between your father and me. We have a slightly different schedule, but that isn’t so unusual. We’ve worked things out very well, I think.”
    Dad has told you to say that. Those are Dad’s words .
    This was a shrewd Freaky-thought. It came and went in my head, in an instant.
    I said, “You and Dad seem to be getting along okay. Last week Dad was telling me, he thinks you’re doing some interesting paintings.”
    This was not true, exactly. I said it to make Mom feel better.
    Mom glanced at me, smiling but puzzled. As if she wanted to believe. “Oh yes,” she said quickly, touchingher throat as if to adjust a nonexistent scarf, “I—things are fine between us. They always have been.”
    We were outside, walking in Mom’s backyard. Samantha and Rabbit ran ahead, through a meadow of wildflowers. There was a lot of loosestrife in bloom, spiky purple flowers growing on upright stems. I hoped that Mom wasn’t going to ask me which paintings of hers Dad was referring to. I pointed at the weather vane rooster on the roof of the old barn and said, “I used to think he was the one who crowed, remember?” Mom glanced up at the rooster and laughed. “Francesca, you were such a—fantasist! As a little girl, you made up such stories about animals.”
    â€œI did? I don’t remember.”
    â€œWell, you remember Mr. Rooster. That was your name for him.”
    I guess I remembered. It was sort of vague. I remembered, from a long time ago, the day Daddy scolded me for “lying.” For “making up things that aren’t true.” My grandma Connor was there, asking me about nursery school, and I must have saidsomething fanciful and ridiculous, because Daddy interrupted, and everybody became quiet.
    Mom and I tramped through the tall grass and creepers to explore the old barn from the outside. I loved the barn smell of hay and ancient dirt, grime. I loved the way swallows flew in and out of a paneless barn window, like big butterflies. Mom said that her neighbor was elderly, in her eighties, and would probably be leaving her property to children who lived in Seattle, and who wouldn’t care to live in Skagit Harbor. “If I could afford it, I’d love to buy this property. There are three acres. Just think!” Mom sounded so wistful, I hardly had time to think, But Dad makes so much money, don’t we have money? Can’t we afford it?
    We circled the barn and peeked through the cracks in the old weather-worn boards. Rabbit came trotting back to us and ran away through the field, with Samantha clapping and calling after him. It was a warm day,