Chapter 2 - What The Hell Happened Here
I didn't let go of her waist even when my dad's hand closed around my mom's wrist.
Her skirt was bunched up in my fists. The black fabric of her uniform smelled like bleach and warm ironing, and I pressed my face into it so I wouldn't have to look at the white floor. The marble was cold under my bare knees. Somewhere to my right I could hear the gray mop bucket rocking a little, the metal handle hitting the side with a clink every time somebody moved too fast near it.
My dad was breathing hard behind me.
"What the hell happened here?" he said.
Nobody answered at first. I felt the maid's hand come down on my back. Not pushing me away. Just holding me there, her fingers spread wide over my pink dress. My sash had twisted around. The bow dug into my side and I didn't fix it.
"Ask her," my mom said. Her voice sounded high and scraped. "You're just a maid. Stay out of my family. Get down and clean it."
That was what she'd said before, when the glass broke. She said it again like saying it louder would make it work. A white cloth lay kicked out near her shoe. Another darker one was balled up by the leg of the banquet table. I could see plates stacked still with food nobody touched and a wine glass tipped on its side.
My dad didn't let go of her wrist. "You're not touching her again."
He said it low, not yelling. That scared me more than yelling. He stepped between them and pulled my mom back a step from the maid. His other hand still held his wine glass. I saw the red wine slosh up the side and almost spill on his white shirt.
My mom tried to yank her arm free. "David, you're making a scene. She dropped a tray by the doors and then she wouldn't move. I told her to clean it up."
I shook my head into the maid's skirt. The bun on the back of her head had come a little loose. A piece of dark hair stuck to her neck with sweat.
My dad looked down at the overturned chairs. Two of them lay on their sides behind my mom, legs pointing at the chandelier. The light from it made bright spots on the marble.
"That's not a dropped tray," he said.
Guests had gone quiet around the banquet table. I could feel them without looking. A man in a gray jacket with his mouth open. A woman holding her clutch with both hands. Nobody chewing anymore. The warm air from the candles felt too thick.
My mom smiled at them. It was the smile she used for pictures. "She's new. She doesn't listen. I raised my hand and your husband overreacted."
"Dad," I said. My throat hurt. "Dad, she knows what mom does to me."
I felt the maid flinch underneath my arms. Her whole body went still. Her hand on my back tightened for half a second and then went light again, like she was afraid someone saw it.
My dad looked at me then. Really looked. His eyes moved from my face, wet and hot, down to my hands clutching her uniform.
"Come here, honey," my mom said, and reached out with her free hand. "Come to Mom. You're tired."
I shook my head again and pushed closer into the maid. I wrapped my arms tighter around her waist until my elbows hurt. The maid bent a little more over me without meaning to, making herself smaller. She didn't say anything. She just stood bent over with me hanging on her, breathing fast through her nose.
"She doesn't want to go to you," my dad said.
My mom's smile dropped. "Don't do this in front of everyone."
"You did this in front of everyone," he said. He finally let go of her wrist, but he didn't step back. He put his wine glass down hard on the banquet table. Some wine jumped out onto the white tablecloth. "Back up. Give them some air."
He turned his head toward the people watching. "Give us some space, please. Party's not over. Just give us the middle of the room."
Chairs scraped. People shifted back toward the columns and the double doors. Nobody left through the stained glass doors, though. They just made a wider circle. I could still hear them whispering.
My mom stood with her arms now crossed over her maroon dress, her bun still perfect. She stared at the maid like she wanted her gone. The maid didn't lift her head. She kept one arm half around my shoulders, shielding me, and stared at the white cloth on the floor by her black shoes.
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My dad stayed between them, his back half to my mom, his eyes on me.
I didn't move.
