“So, what do we do today?” he asks.
“You tell me.”
Asking him that feels like an admission, an acknowledgment of a lie.
I want to ask my Dad what to do. He can hear us. He does not sleep. He is not dead. I angle my face away from Matt’s. “I want to talk to those women who said they were married to him. Is that stupid?”
He waits until I look at him again.
“Marla, you know the answer to that.”
“Why do you think Dad hid everything from us?”
Eventually, the shepherd must slaughter his sheep.
“I don’t know. Because he was ashamed of himself? Because he was an asshole?”
Looking at my brother, I feel my blood being squeezed out, drop by drop.
Now, the people I love are like celebrities to me, surrounded by rumor and fanfare. Parts of my past come forth like scenes. Nostalgia obliterates reality but this dialogue feels realer than real. My mother lives on a movielot. I want my father’s autograph. I want my brother’s picture.
“I have a lot of questions about his family. Do you think this woman would be a good start?”
“Maybe. It’s hard to tell with people that knew you when you were a younger you.”
“What does that mean?” I tear my nail almost down to the quick.
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