engine.
"Jesus," Jenny muttered, and I should have chastised her for that, but knew if I wished to gain her trust, it was better not to. Maybe as a footnote to a future conversation, but not here, and not now.
Sam gasped. "I'm telling!"
"She heard me, dummy." Jenny sneered.
I reversed the car onto the road.
It didn't matter whether or not Jenny ever admitted to what Chris was doing to her. I knew. A woman knows , I'd thought while watching Chris preparing his confession of adultery. I amended that now, because yes, a woman knows, but not nearly as much as a mother does. And if there were any gaps in my logic, they were filled with the evidence at my disposal.
Chris's words, repeated in the dream because I'd missed the implication when he'd said them the first time: "I've done something I'm not proud of, honey." Not, "I had an affair" or "I slept with another woman" or any of the myriad variations of the theme. The woman was never specifically mentioned at all. No names, n o explanations of how the treachery had come to pass. No details. Because no details were necessary. What he had done, he'd done to our daughter, in our house, and he was not confessing to an affair, but a weakness, a lapse in restraining the very same disease that had inhabited my father.
In the dream, my brother had told me many things I had taken at face value rather than reading deeper into them. He was trying to tell me what was happening, what was coming. Or rather, some part of me was trying to warn me, using the image of my brother to convey the message for fear I wouldn't heed it if it occurred to me in the light of day.
Don't be a fucking idiot, sis. You know what he did, what he's doing still.
I had assumed he was talking about our father.
Then you aren't really listening.
And yes, perhaps I had only imagined Jenny sitting in her room when I'd gone to tuck her in that night, but now I knew the words she'd said had been real and not misheard. They had come from her dreams, where the truth can hold court with no lips to block it.
He touches me, Mommy.
The headaches, the nightmares, every awful thing I had seen or thought I'd seen...it could all be traced back to the moment Jenny began to blossom from a child into a young girl. She was now the age I'd been when hell had found me. The only difference was that I hadn't had anyone to protect me. And rather than face the reality of what was happening, I had obsessed over my pathetic father and his sins, even as my subconscious tried to show me the light.
"Mom, you went the wrong way," Sam piped up from the back seat.
He was right. Distracted by my thoughts, I had missed the turn.
I slowed the car, checked the rearview for traffic and caught sight of Jenny's eyes. They were moist, but she was no l onger crying, and in them I saw a flicker of anger.
The flame.
I smiled.
That' s my girl.
TWENTY
I returned home after dropping off the kids to find the house quiet and Chris dozing on the couch. He had his face turned away, mouth open and snoring, arms crossed as if his falling asleep had been an act of petulance. He hadn't changed his clothes, which meant he hadn't showered, and as I knelt down on the floor beside him, I detected the noxious smell of alcohol still seeping from his pores.
"You never knew so many things," I whispered, knowing he wouldn't wake. "Some, because of your ignorance and stupidity. Others, because I chose not to tell you. And I chose not to tell you because a part of me always suspected you had the darkness inside you, that I couldn't trust you no more than I could trust any grown-up." This, I realized, was why I hadn't told him about my visit to my father, or that the old man had died. Knowing that the object of my focus was gone, leaving him vulnerable to scrutiny, might have made Chris more careful, more cunning, and then I'd never have exposed him for what he was.
But a mother always knows.
I brought my hand close to his face, but did
"Jesus," Jenny muttered, and I should have chastised her for that, but knew if I wished to gain her trust, it was better not to. Maybe as a footnote to a future conversation, but not here, and not now.
Sam gasped. "I'm telling!"
"She heard me, dummy." Jenny sneered.
I reversed the car onto the road.
It didn't matter whether or not Jenny ever admitted to what Chris was doing to her. I knew. A woman knows , I'd thought while watching Chris preparing his confession of adultery. I amended that now, because yes, a woman knows, but not nearly as much as a mother does. And if there were any gaps in my logic, they were filled with the evidence at my disposal.
Chris's words, repeated in the dream because I'd missed the implication when he'd said them the first time: "I've done something I'm not proud of, honey." Not, "I had an affair" or "I slept with another woman" or any of the myriad variations of the theme. The woman was never specifically mentioned at all. No names, n o explanations of how the treachery had come to pass. No details. Because no details were necessary. What he had done, he'd done to our daughter, in our house, and he was not confessing to an affair, but a weakness, a lapse in restraining the very same disease that had inhabited my father.
In the dream, my brother had told me many things I had taken at face value rather than reading deeper into them. He was trying to tell me what was happening, what was coming. Or rather, some part of me was trying to warn me, using the image of my brother to convey the message for fear I wouldn't heed it if it occurred to me in the light of day.
Don't be a fucking idiot, sis. You know what he did, what he's doing still.
I had assumed he was talking about our father.
Then you aren't really listening.
And yes, perhaps I had only imagined Jenny sitting in her room when I'd gone to tuck her in that night, but now I knew the words she'd said had been real and not misheard. They had come from her dreams, where the truth can hold court with no lips to block it.
He touches me, Mommy.
The headaches, the nightmares, every awful thing I had seen or thought I'd seen...it could all be traced back to the moment Jenny began to blossom from a child into a young girl. She was now the age I'd been when hell had found me. The only difference was that I hadn't had anyone to protect me. And rather than face the reality of what was happening, I had obsessed over my pathetic father and his sins, even as my subconscious tried to show me the light.
"Mom, you went the wrong way," Sam piped up from the back seat.
He was right. Distracted by my thoughts, I had missed the turn.
I slowed the car, checked the rearview for traffic and caught sight of Jenny's eyes. They were moist, but she was no l onger crying, and in them I saw a flicker of anger.
The flame.
I smiled.
That' s my girl.
TWENTY
I returned home after dropping off the kids to find the house quiet and Chris dozing on the couch. He had his face turned away, mouth open and snoring, arms crossed as if his falling asleep had been an act of petulance. He hadn't changed his clothes, which meant he hadn't showered, and as I knelt down on the floor beside him, I detected the noxious smell of alcohol still seeping from his pores.
"You never knew so many things," I whispered, knowing he wouldn't wake. "Some, because of your ignorance and stupidity. Others, because I chose not to tell you. And I chose not to tell you because a part of me always suspected you had the darkness inside you, that I couldn't trust you no more than I could trust any grown-up." This, I realized, was why I hadn't told him about my visit to my father, or that the old man had died. Knowing that the object of my focus was gone, leaving him vulnerable to scrutiny, might have made Chris more careful, more cunning, and then I'd never have exposed him for what he was.
But a mother always knows.
I brought my hand close to his face, but did
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