“Margaret,” Rosie said, looking down at her lap. “I want to name the girl Margaret after Mother.”
I felt a cold knot form in my stomach, thinking of the brochure in the kitchen trash.
“Are you sure about that, Rosie?” I asked gently.
“She is our mother,” Rosie said, her voice sounding tired, her eyes heavy.
She leaned her head against my shoulder, her breathing slow and shallow.
“Ben says everything will be fine,” she whispered.
“He says we just have to wait until February.”
I wrapped my arm around her, feeling the slight tremor in her shoulders.
I reached down into my coat pocket and felt the stiff edge of the copied deed.
My father had built a cage around my sister, and my mother had helped him lock the door.
Cathy folds the copy of the deed and slips it into her purse, knowing she has crossed a line she cannot uncross.
The heavy oak door of the dining room at the Oakhaven Inn shut out the damp chill of the October evening, but it did not soften the silence at our table.
The room smelled of roasted garlic and old floor wax, the linen tablecloths starch-white and stiff enough to stand on their own if the waiters let go of the corners.
My father stood at the head of the table, his fingers lightly brushing the edge of his water glass as he waited for the last waiter to withdraw behind the velvet screen.
He tapped the side of his glass with a heavy silver spoon, the high note cutting through the low murmur of the other diners.
“If I could have everyone’s attention for just a brief moment,” my father said, looking over the top of his gold-rimmed reading glasses.
My mother smoothed the front of her dark blue skirt with both hands, her posture completely straight as she offered a polite, practiced smile to the empty space between them.
Beside her, Rosie was already grinning, her fingers tracing the edge of her bread plate with a small, rhythmic motion.
