Chapter 2 - We're Leaving Before Dessert
The plates were still full when my mom moved.
I hadn't looked up from my pasta. The noodles had gone soft and stuck together in a pale clump, and the water glass next to it had my fingerprints all over it. I could hear my grandma chewing across from me, slow and even, like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't just said it.
My mom's chair scraped against the wood floor. It wasn't loud, but in that quiet it sounded wrong. I felt her hand before I saw it, her fingers sliding around mine under the edge of the table. Her palm was warm and a little damp. She squeezed once.
"We're leaving."
She didn't say it loud. She said it quiet and firm, to my grandma. She was already standing. Her dark green shirt had a wrinkle across the front from where she'd been sitting, and her dark bob had fallen forward a little. She didn't fix it.
For a second nobody moved. My dad, in his light blue button-down, had his fork still in his hand. He looked at my mom, then at me. He put the fork down careful against his plate so it wouldn't clink. Then he pushed his chair back too and stood.
My grandma didn't stand. She stayed in her chair at the head of the warm dining room table, her blonde hair still pinned up neat, her pearl necklace catching the low light. She had her napkin in her lap. She looked at my mom the way she looked at me when I asked about her birthday. Calm. Cold.
I didn't want to look at her, so I looked at my mom's hand holding mine. I stood up because she pulled, gentle but sure. My jeans caught on the chair leg and I had to yank them free. My light sweater felt too hot suddenly. My face was hot.
We left the plates there. The steam was gone from the pasta. The water glasses were still full. Nobody said anything about the food.
In the hallway the light was different. It was brighter near the front door, daylight coming in through the narrow window beside it. Our shoes sounded too loud on the floor. My mom didn't let go of my hand. My dad walked right behind us, close enough that I could hear him breathing. He put his hand lightly on my shoulder for a second as we got to the door, then dropped it to open it.
Outside, the air hit my face. The walkway in front of the brick house was bright with natural daylight, so bright after the low warm light inside that I squinted. The bricks on the house were red-brown and the mortar lines were white in the sun. I could see dust floating.
My mom kept walking. She didn't look back. Her grip on my hand tightened as we went down the walkway, her steps quick and even. The concrete was warm through my shoes. I looked down at our hands swinging a little between us.
I heard the screen door behind us. I turned my head just enough to see. My dad had come out and pulled the front door almost closed behind him. He wasn't running, but he stayed right with us. His face was serious, his mouth set in a straight line. He glanced at me and gave me a short nod, like he was telling me it was okay to keep going.
I looked back toward the house. My grandma was standing in the doorway now. She hadn't followed us down the walk. She just stood there with one hand on the doorframe, her maroon blouse dark against the shadow inside. She was watching us. She didn't call out. She didn't lift her hand or say my name or say wait.
From inside, past her, I could hear a chair move and water pouring, like someone else at the table was still eating. Nobody else came to the door. Nobody else tried to stop us.
Halfway down the walkway, my mom slowed for just a breath. I thought she might turn around. She didn't. She looked down at me instead, and her face did something tight around her eyes. Not crying. Just holding it in.
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My dad caught up to us then and walked on my other side. The three of us made a line across the walkway. I could feel the sun on my long brown hair and on the back of my neck. My hand was still in my mom's. My dad's sleeve brushed my arm.
We kept going toward the street where the car was parked. The house got smaller behind us. I didn't hear the door close.
