I glance through the kitchen partition, watching him fall into easy conversation with Dad, all the while sneakily glancing at his phone under the table to get his facts straight about the Bears. It’s kind of endearingly Thad, but also kind of sad at the same time. I wonder if there’s anyone else who seeshimjust as he is, or if he’s just putting on an act with everybody to get something out of them. It sounds like a lonely way to live.
Sighing, I look back at my mother. “Be honest, Mom. It doesn’t matter what he says or what he does or how he looks at me. You just hate the fact that I’m not going to be a sister anymore.”
Mom stares at me, her gaze so blurry that I’m not entirely confident she’s heard me. And then she bursts into tears.
“God had a plan for you, Helen. I had a plan for you. Why would you just throw that all away?”
I go to her, and hug her, and comfort her, because what else can I do? She’s my mom. Some people get mothers who support them no matter what, and some people get mothers who smother them and question their every life decision. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me. It’s just the best way she knows how to love. “I wasn’t happy,” I tell her. It isn’t the first time I’ve said it, but I’m hoping that somehow, this time, she’ll really hear me. “I was miserable. I felt like my life was over, like all my choices had been taken away from me and I was stuck playing a part for the rest of my life. And not just when I was a sister—everything leading up to that. Never going on dates, feeling guilty about having crushes, knowing I would never have kids or own my own house or—even ride a roller coaster!”
Mom sniffles. “I would have taken you to ride a roller coaster if you asked.”
But despite her retort, I hope in her silence, in the way she grips me tighter, that she’s processing the rest of it. Maybe really hearing it for the first time. Swallowing, I press on. “I know you had a plan, but it wasn’t my plan. It wasn’t what I wanted.”
After a moment, Mom pulls back, wiping at her watery eyes. “And that’s what you want? Thattattoo manout there?”
She says it so disdainfully that I can’t help but laugh. “Mom.”
Mom, apparently, does not find humor in the situation. She levels a finger at me. “You might not be a sister anymore, but you’re still a good Catholic girl, and you will still go to hell if you have relations before you get married. ‘Let the marriage bed be undefiled, for God will judge the immoral.’”
Ah, yes, that old religious trauma that I’ve literally been going to therapy for. Thanks, Mom. I decide to turn the tables on her. “And you’re gonna go to hell if you don’t stop being so judgy.”
She gasps at me, appalled. “Helen Margaret Flanagan!”
If she thinks she can out-Bible an ex-sister, she has another thing coming. “‘Why beholdest thou the mote in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?’” I level a finger right back at her. “You better be nice and not judge someone based on their looks. What would Jesus say to that?”
Mom actually looks a little cowed. “All right, I’ll be nice.” She picks up the charcuterie board, and I see her give a last, longing look at the remnants in the wine bottle, though she refrains from drinking it in front of me. “Will you grab the cards from the den? We can play a few hands while your father puts together the rolls. That boy does know how to play spades, doesn’t he?”
“Mind your beam,” I singsong back to her, though I obligingly head into the den. Passing by Linda in the living room, I see she’s fallen fast asleep on her recliner. Good old Linda.
Even though I’ve spent many holidays and weekends here throughout my life, it takes a few minutes for me to find the cards. Every so often Aunt Linda gets bored and decides to reorganize the entire house—not for the sake of making it more functional, but for reasons unknown. Like with my mother, I suspect it probably has something to do with Oprah.
I finally find the cards, which for some reason have been stored—along with the other games—in a plastic wastebasket. It’s clean and looks like it hasn’t been used, but still, a trash can. Why?
Shaking my head, I start to leave, before my eye catches on something sitting out on the desk. It looks like a bank statement, but it’s been highlighted several times and there are notes scribbled on it.
Curious, I move closer to get a better look. For the record, I don’t typically look through other people’s bank statements, but itisjust lying out on the desk, and it looks like someone has gone to war with it, by how much it’s marked up.
I see that a number of recent charges have been highlighted, with the total of all the various charges tallied at the bottom of the page. Did someone steal Aunt Linda’s credit card and now she’s having to file for fraudulent charges?
The truth hits me all at once, and I actually gasp out loud. Someonediduse Aunt Linda’s credit card, but I’m willing to bet he didn’t steal it. Knowing Dean, he would have been smart enough to anticipate that an intrepid detective might look at my parents’ credit card statements—but who would go so far as to dig through an aunt’s payment history? That would explain why the charges have been tallied at the bottom—so my mom can know how much money she owes Linda.
I should be shocked, that my aunt and mother would be capable of aiding and abetting a fugitive who broke his bond, but…I’m really, really not. From before Dean was even born, Mom has been pitting us against each other. Never mind that I was on the honor roll; Dean placed in state on the swim team. I had perfect attendance? Well, Dean made Mom a paperweight in art class. I was a nun? Well, Dean cooked Mom a spaghetti dinnerby himself.In a world of mediocre males being praised for doing the bare minimum, Dean is the undisputed king of undeserved praise. It totally makes sense that Mom must have spun some kind of narrative about this somehow not being Dean’s fault, and Aunt Linda seems to have come along for the delusional ride. Or better yet, maybe Mom has found some way to argue that his misdeeds have something to do withmebreaking my vows.
Gritting my teeth in annoyance at the way she is yet again coddling her favorite golden child, I try to focus on the information in front of me.
Charge after charge has been made from various places in the United States over the last week, but one place in particular starts to pop out more than the rest.
New Orleans, Louisiana.
“Helen?” I hear my mother calling from the other room.
Pulling out my phone from my pocket, I take a few quick snapshots of the bill pages and hurriedly put everything back into place just as my mother enters the room.
“What took you so long?” she chides me. “Don’t leave me out there with those men.”
“It took me forever to find the cards,” I say, and technically it isn’t a lie. Technically I’m not the one who broke the law, or helped my son break his bond, or aided my nephew in fleeing the law.
So then why doIfeel so guilty?
