"When I came back after a year of school, I tried to have a relationship with her, but it was so draining. Finally, I got tired of it. Of all the phone conversations where she talked for an hour and I talked for a minute. Of all the holidays she ruined by refusing to get out of bed. When I was a kid, I had no choice. I had to be around her emotional abuse and her mental illness. As an adult, I have a choice. Not an easy one, but at least a choice."

"Do you think she's truly ill?"

I nodded my head.

"I begged her to get help. When I first started my business, and I was only making eight hundred dollars a month, I offered to pay for counseling for her. She wouldn't go. She insisted that our family was sick, not her. To this day, I agree with her a" our family is sick, every last one of us. But so is she."

"Do you have any contact with her now?"

"Not if I can help it," I said adamantly. "One month she sends me a nice birthday card, saying she misses me. The next month, she sends me my vaccination papers a" like she's trying to get every trace of me out of her house. I mean, what do I need twenty-year-old vaccination papers for now?"

"Does your sister stay in touch with her?"

"Ann?"

Destiny nodded.

"No, she stopped talking to her around the same time I did but for different reasons. I can't even remember what they were anymore. My other sisters, Gail and Jill, both live in California. I think they moved there to get away from my family, but the distance allows them to think they have good relationships with both my mother and father. I'm sure my father molested Gail. There's no way he couldn't have. In age, she's right between me and Ann. Maybe he molested David, too. As for Jill, I'm not sure about her. I'd hate to even know. I was seven years older than her, and I tried so hard to protect her."

"How sad!"

"I've thrown away most of the things my parents have given me over the years, what few there were," I said matter-of-factly.

"But don't you miss your mom?"

"Not really," I answered a fraction too quickly. "Well, maybe that's not true. I guess I do miss her a little, and I probably always will. Mostly, I miss the idea of a mother, of someone she's never been. I don't even tell people anymore that I live in the same city as her but never see her. They always suggest I reconcile, as if there's been some mild misunderstanding. I've tried, Destiny. G.o.d knows, I've tried. But what I really need to do, the much harder thing to do, is reconcile myself to the fact that the mother I have will never treat me in a loving, respectful way. And so, I can't be around her. That's what I regret. I don't regret not being around her the way she is."

We were both quiet, sitting in an awkward silence. Ready to pay the bill, I searched for the waiter.

"How often do you see your dad, Kris?" Destiny asked me in a quiet voice.

My attention snapped back to her. I laughed a bitter laugh.

"Ironically, I see him quite often. The last time I saw him was just before I met you. We went out to dinner."

"Will you see him again now that you know what he did?"

"I'm not sure a" I haven't really thought that far ahead."

"I couldn't see him."

"Sure you could."

She looked at me strangely.

"Your coping skills are as fine-tuned as mine. I can block out the abuse, Destiny. I can separate the man he is today from the man he was then. At great cost to myself, but I can do it. Completely. Just like I've done all my life. Just like you did last night at your grandma's, until she called you 'little one.' "

"Then I lost it," she admitted, a bit embarra.s.sed.

"But you got control of yourself again."

"Aren't you ever afraid you'll lose it for good, Kris? That something will trigger it, and all the memories will come flooding back at once, and you won't be able to endure the pain?"

"I'm afraid of that all the time. Ready for it, yet deathly afraid of it."

How could I not be afraid? I'd read books and articles and newspaper stories about other women who were the victims of incest. Their lives were often pictures of childhood abuse turned into adult tragedy. Women who lost everything: their jobs, their sanity, even their lives, when the memories returned.

I took three quick sips from my water gla.s.s.

"This may seem like a dumb question, but then why would you want to see your father?"

I smiled half-heartedly. "This may seem like a dumb answer, but I can't bear to lose both my mother and my father. For the last ten years, beginning when he and my mom divorced, I've really liked him. Heas been supportive of my work, he's acknowledged my lovers, and he's treated me with kindness and respect. My mom's abuse, I clearly remember a" in excruciating detail a" when I'm awake. His abuse s, so far, I only remembera"in vague imagery a" when I'm asleep. Each day, I try to put it all behind me, to focus on the life I have now. Most days I succeed. Some, I don't. There have been times recently when I've been afraid I'd crack under the pressure of keeping it all together, or separate rather. Today, everything in my world seems different than it did yesterday, but for the first time in a long time, I don't feel crazy."

"Do you think your mother knows your father abused you and your sisters?"

Even though I'd already given that question hours of consideration, it took me a minute to answer.

"I think so, on some level." I breathed deeply. "I think that may have been part of what drove her to her bed. She's so bitter today, and half of what makes her bitter is that we all have a relationship with my father. It infuriates her because she believes we think she's the only sick one. It's almost like she's been on the verge of telling us that his sickness dwarfs hers, but she never could quite seem to find the words. Because to find the words, she'd have to admit that she knew what was going on. "The main difference between my parents, Destiny, is that my mom has carried my father's guilt. But he has never carried hers. I'm sure that he doesn't waste one minute of his life today worrying that perhaps he should have done something more for his children when his wife took to her bed for years on end."

"What did he do?"

"He golfed. He drank thirty-five thousand beers a" and I'm not exaggerating. I figured that out one day. He let us fend for ourselves. Now pretend that she did know something was going on, and again, I'm not sure that she did, but pretend that she did. What did she do? She became so depressed that she couldn't get up. That's the difference between the two of them. He feels nothing. And she feels too much."

"I don't know how you do it, Kris."

"Do what?"

"I don't know how you manage to live without feeling rage every day of your life, rage at these two people who did these horrible things to you."

"I don't. I try to control my rage, but it's always there."

Destiny reached over to calm my hands that were playing with packs of sugar as if they were cards.

"This means a lot that you're talking to me, Kris."

"About my family?" I stopped fiddling.

"About yourself."

"Thanks for listening." I smiled at her shyly. She grinned.

Right then, at that exact moment, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had a true friend. It made me sad for all the years I'd spent alone, for all the time I'd lost.

Destiny must have seen the frown cross my forehead.

"Hey, Kris, why the frown? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, erasing the sorrow. "Let's talk about you for a minute. My next plan is to meet with Lydia Barton a" your mom's old friend...."

Chapter 13.

The next Sat.u.r.day, with a twinge of guilt, I realized it had been a long time since I'd talked to my grandma.

Pretending to be on my way home from the library, I stopped by her house to see if she needed any groceries.

As independent as Grandma Ashe was, she'd never learned to drive a car. Once, I'd gotten her to take a spin around the block on my moped, but that was the extent of her motoring experience.

Whenever I could, I stopped by to take her grocery shopping. I rarely needed groceries myself because I never ate at home, but I didn't mind taking her.

I rang the doorbell several times but got no answer. Undaunted, I peered in the front window and spotted Grandma sitting comfortably oblivious in her living room. By banging on the screen and jumping up and down, I finally got her attention.

We met at the front door.

"Hi, honey, why didn't you ring the bell?" She hugged me.

"I did," I said, suppressing my irritation. "Maybe your hearing aids aren't working, Grandma," I added, although I could see full well she wasn't wearing them.

"Oh, I only wear them when I have company. I'll go get them." She retreated into the bedroom.

When she left the room, I walked over to her mantle and studied the family pictures I'd seen a hundred times before. This time was different, though. This time, I was looking for clues.

There were my cousins in long hair and bell bottoms, and there was my grandpa, a man who died before I was born.

And there was our family. Father, mother, four girls and a boy. Even then, even when we were all together, we looked miserable, especially me. My body language told it all. In every picture, I was standing a good foot away from everyone else, looking perpetually mad. Forever, I had tried to separate.

My grandma returned, hearing aids in place.

"Do you think Mom and Dad were good parents, Grandma?"

She looked at me quizzically, like I'd grown two heads while she was out of the room, and for a second, I thought she wasn't going to answer.

"They did their best, honey. That's all anyone can do."

"But do you think their best was good enough?"

"That's not for us to decide," she said in a conversation-ending tone. I knew I'd pushed her too far, but I couldn't help myself. I couldn't keep pretending, even though I knew that's exactly what she wanted me to do.

She handed me several sheets of paper she'd brought from the kitchen. They were coupons, and they returned us to the safety of our superficial rituals. She always gave me coupons to restaurants; I always pretended to use them but instead threw them away when I got home.

"Here's a two-for-one at Gino's. And another one for Maxi's, but it expires this week. I haven't seen you in a while, you know," she delivered a mild reprimand.

"I've been busy a"" I started to explain.

"And you're not looking good, Kristin," she interrupted me.

Just once, just one measly time, I wished someone would tell me I looked good.

"Are you getting enough sleep?"

"No," I admitted.

"You work too hard. You always have. You should try to get to bed early."

"I will," I said feebly.

I didn't bother telling her that I often went to bed early, but dream terrors woke me. Dreams of my father, her son, attacking me.

"I was just on my way to the grocery store, do you need anything?"

"I could use a few things. Let me get my list."

Minutes after we arrived at the store, I was done with my shopping. My purchases were a People magazine and an ice cold Dr. Pepper.

I went back out to the car to wait for Grandma.

If Grandma ever noticed that I didn't really need to go to the store, she never mentioned it. We Ashe girls were less than honest sometimes; she pretended not to need me, and I pretended not to be as kind as I was.

I was halfway through the week's gossip when a car pulled up next to mine. A late model Chevrolet Celebrity. Out of it stepped two young girls, about high school age, and from the back seat sprang a little boy, about seven years of age. One of the girls put her arm around the kid's shoulder and the three of them walked into the store together. There was a lightness to their steps. I wanted to run and catch up with them and ask if I could spend the rest of the day doing whatever they were doing. But I didn't.

Instead, I put down the magazine, reclined in my seat, took off my gla.s.ses and closed my eyes as the sun came through the car windows and warmed my body.

I thought about Grandma's answer to the question of whether my parents were good parents. She had said "That's not for us to decide," but she was wrong. It was for me to decide. I thought about all the ways and all the days I'd tried, in vain, to get my parents' attention.

I rubbed the area on my nose where my eyegla.s.ses had just been and thought about how I'd gotten my first pair of gla.s.ses. In an effort to get my parents' attention, I "cheated" on the eye exam. I pretended to not see letters that I saw. The next thing I knew, I had gla.s.ses. I kept thinking someone would catch me at some point, that they'd discover I was faking. But they never did. At the age of twenty-nine, my eyesight was genuinely limited. I wondered if it was then... when I was six years old and freshly bespectacled. It was funny, the things I'd forgotten. It felt odd to have the memories returning in such strange, strange sequences.

After what seemed like three days, Grandma finally came out of the store, slowly pushing her cart. Usually, I hopped right out and ran to help her. But this time, I froze. From a safe distance, I watched her and I thought about what it would be like to speak the truth, to tell her what my life was really like.

It would kill her, the thought occurred to me. The truth would kill her.

But what was the silence doing to me?

Unwilling to answer that question, I sprinted over to help her. Together, each of our hands clasping the bar, we pushed the cart back to the car.

Once there, I tossed aside the croquet set and tennis rackets and cleared a s.p.a.ce in the back of my Honda for her groceries. I unloaded the six bags, my grandma's idea of "a few things," and we were off.

We had the most inane conversation during our short journey back to her house.

"I saw Alberta Balkenbush today. You remember Alberta...."

"Er, no." I rarely met any of the friends she talked about, but that never stopped her from thinking I knew them.

"She has cancer now. She lost her leg. Had it cut off right here."