Chapter 3 - The Houses Kept Going By
The air outside Grandma's brick house felt too bright after the dining room. My eyes hadn't adjusted yet and the daylight made everything look washed out. Mom still had my hand. Her fingers were tight around mine, not hurting, just not letting go. Dad walked a half-step behind us, his shoes loud on the walkway.
I could hear my own breathing. I kept thinking about my plate back on the table, the pasta getting cold, my water glass with the lip mark on it. I hadn't pushed my chair in. I wondered if anyone would push it in for me.
Dad unlocked the car. It was hot inside from sitting in the sun. The seat burned the back of my legs through my jeans. I slid into the back and pulled my seatbelt across my light sweater. My hands were shaking a little, so I tucked them under the strap to hide it.
Mom got in front. She didn't look back at the house. She just stared straight ahead while Dad started the engine.
My name is Lily. I was twelve that summer. That afternoon we left before dessert.
Dad backed out slow. I watched Grandma's house get smaller in the side window. The bricks looked redder in the daylight than they did from inside. The front door was closed. I kept waiting for it to open again, for someone to come out and say wait, come back, it was a joke. Nobody came.
Oh, you're not invited to my birthday.
I heard it again in my head exactly the way she said it. Not loud. She didn't even put her fork down all the way. She looked down at her plate first, then at me, like it was already decided. I tried to replay what I had said right before, to see if I had asked it wrong.
What should I wear?
I had been hopeful when I asked it. I remembered picking at the edge of my napkin because I was excited. I thought she would talk about colors or the restaurant or cake. I didn't understand how a question like that got that answer.
They're different.
That part kept getting stuck too. Mom had asked about Katie's kids in that tight voice, and Grandma just tilted her head. Different how? I stared out the window and tried to make it fit. Katie's kids were younger than me. Maybe birthdays had an age rule? But that didn't make sense because last year I went. I tried to remember if I'd done something wrong at the table. I had used my fork right. I hadn't spilled my water.
The car was quiet except for the air conditioner. Dad drove steady with both hands at ten and two. At every stop sign he stopped all the way. Mom kept her hands folded in her lap. Her dark green shirt had a little wrinkle at the sleeve from where she had held my hand so hard.
Houses passed. A white fence, a mailbox shaped like a barn, a kid's bike tipped over on a lawn. I counted them so I wouldn't cry. One, two, three. My throat felt thick and my eyes burned, but I decided I wasn't going to cry in front of them. Not because they would be mad. Just because if I started, Mom might start, and she was trying so hard not to.
Dad glanced in the rearview mirror and caught my eye for a second, then looked back at the road.
"We going straight home?" he asked. His voice was low.
Mom didn't turn her head. "Straight home," she said.
That was it. No talk about what happened. No talk about Grandma. Dad nodded once and turned onto our county road. The trees got thicker there, and the light flickered through them across the dashboard.
I leaned my forehead against the window. The glass was cool. I could see Mom's reflection in the passenger window, just her profile. She was staring ahead like she was already thinking about something she had to do when we got there. Her jaw moved a little, like she was holding words back.
I wanted to ask if we were in trouble for leaving. I wanted to ask if I had ruined dinner. The questions sat in my mouth and I swallowed them. The car felt too small for questions.
When we pulled into our driveway, the gravel crunched under the tires. Dad put it in park but left the engine running for a second. Mom unbuckled her seatbelt and picked up her purse from the floor. She looked at our house, then at her phone lighting up inside her purse, and her shoulders straightened.
May you like
"We're home," Dad said quietly, mostly to me.
I unbuckled and opened the door. My legs felt wobbly from sitting still. Mom was already getting out, already moving toward the front door with that focused look, like the quiet ride was over and something else was about to start.
