Noah and Lily sat silently in the back seat. Their faces looked washed-out in the gray winter light. They had learned quietness too young, the way children do when adults make love feel like something that has to be earned.
My phone rang again.
This time, Vanessa’s name appeared.
I let it go to voicemail.
A few seconds later, the message showed up. I pressed play on speaker because I was finished hiding the truth from myself.
Vanessa was crying hard.
“Claire, answer the phone! Mom can’t breathe, Dad is yelling at everybody, and the boys are throwing up. Madison is crying because she thinks Grandma is dying. Please, just answer!”
Noah looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Are they sick?”
“I don’t know,” I said carefully.
But I suspected something.
I looked at the grocery bags on the passenger seat. I had brought food because my mother had asked me to. She always asked me to contribute something, then acted as if what I brought did not count.
