Lemon Reef by Robin Silverman

understood why,” Katie said more calmly, “but Pascale always blamed you for Del’s problems.”
    My head jolted in her direction. “What?” I was nodding slowly and trying not to spiral into a fury. “So was I the problem before or after Pascale’s daily binges and beatings?”

    *

    The first time I was present for one of these binge-and-beat episodes, the fight had started over then nine-year-old Nicole not liking her dinner. It was enough—aided by several beers—to tilt the already-leaning Pascale over some invisible edge and send her into an injured rage. Ida and Nicole disappeared into their room, while Del, only fourteen years old, placed herself between her mother and the fleeing girls and tried to tell Pascale there wasn’t anything to get so angry about. When reason failed, Del resorted to provocation to ignite Pascale to get whatever this was over with. Stepping in this way was not exactly a conscious thing on Del’s part—no more so than the use of one’s blinker while driving, or the placement of one’s fingers on the piano keys while playing a well-practiced piece.
    â€œMom, you’re drunk.” Del moved her body sideways to prevent Pascale from entering the hallway in the direction of Ida and Nicole’s room. Twenty-two-month-old Sid was screaming from his high chair. Del glanced in my direction and said, “Can you get him?”
    As I lifted Sid from his chair, I heard Pascale, her tone one of thinning restraint, her accent accentuated from rage. “Move. Get out of my way, Del. Get out of my fucking way.” Pascale’s thin, muscular figure angled to get past, her focus set on Nicole’s bedroom door. “No matter what I do for you kids, it’s not enough.”
    I held Sid and rocked him, and he quieted some.
    Del nodded her head and steadied her eyes. Her expression impassive, she said, “Why do you have to drink? This is why my father left you—and us.” I backed up from where I was standing, tripping over one of Sid’s toys as I butted up against the television set. Sid was watching Del and his mother, his black eyes still and frightened.
    Silence, as if Pascale was translating for herself what Del had just said to her, then an explosion: “That son of a bitch didn’t leave me. I threw him out.” Pascale lunged, seized hold of a fistful of Del’s hair, and yanked. Del’s head seemed momentarily detached and flying through space, arching up and over, the rest of her body dangling like the string from an accidentally let-loose helium balloon. I was stunned and then repulsed by the sickeningly comical nature of the image. Sid started screaming again.
    Pascale slammed Del into the wall, yelling threats in Spanish, French, and English—whichever language came quickest to her. She punched and slapped at Del’s head and face repeatedly. Del yelled for her to stop and tried pushing Pascale away, resorting finally to crouching down to the floor and folding over in order to protect her face and body from the salvo of flying fists and clawing nails. Pascale came to an abrupt halt, as if she’d forgotten what she was doing. She had a disoriented look and she was breathing hard; she was trying to catch her breath.
    Del was curled up against the wall with her arms covering her head. The sudden stillness drew Del out; she peeked up to see if it was over. Pascale said something in French under her breath. Del covered her face again as Pascal cranked back her leg, the image of the cranking leg mimicked—caricatured—by its shadow, cast against the near wall. I could see coming what Del could not, yelled, “No,” as Pascale uncoiled, ramming the pointed toe of her shoe into Del’s side. Del folded in on herself and howled. Sid screamed.
    Pascale looked around, as if to see where the noise was coming from. When she saw my face and Sid’s her own sobered