“You’ll have to ask her,” I say, not trusting myself with another word. Having botched this whole thing, I’m numb. I can’t possibly imagine the awful scene to come inside.

Even before we reach the top of the stairs, though, headlights slice through the rain. With the angry crunch of tires on wet gravel, Anne whips the Volvo around. By the time we’ve fully crested the bluff, red taillights have shrunk and, seconds later, are gone.

“Good,” Margo states as we head for the house, but the declaration does nothing to relieve me. Like the gun that is gone but remains larger than ever, so is Anne. Here, though, there isn’t a tiny bullet hole but a big gaping wound.

Hurting, I pass through the mudroom and, ignoring the half-cleaned kitchen, release Joy’s hand and head for the stairs.

Joy runs to catch up. “Are you okay, Mom?”

“Just need a shower.”

We all do. I go first, then Joy, then Margo. None of us linger. Soap and hot water can’t wash away the damage. Then we’re all three in my room, sitting cross-legged on the plaid quilt wearing dry shorts and shirts and in various stages of towel-drying our hair.

Margo is the first to set her towel aside. “Speak,” she orders.

And I do try. But words won’t come. This trip has become a nightmare, making clear thought impossible. I don’t know what she wants to hear, don’t know what Joy should hear. I’ve been the decision-maker all these years, but I can’t pick words now. I want to call Anne a liar but can’t. I want to tear into myself for giving her secret away but can’t. I want to vomit or in lieu of that, lie down in this bed, turn off the lights, pull the covers up to my ears, and blot out the world. But I can’t do that either, with my sister and daughter waiting.

“Mom?” Joy whispers in concern. She’s never seen me like this.

I’ve never seen me like this, either. Helplessness is a luxury I could never afford. I’m so unpracticed at it that the onrush of emotion is paralyzing.

The best I can do is to wave a hand. Not ready, it says, and they accept that.

“Papa,” Joy murmurs to Margo, who nods.

Climbing off the bed, she goes downstairs to check. I’m rocking gently, doing everything in my power to put my mind in a different place. Except, the gray fringe of my nightmares is closing in, made sharp by fragments of Anne, Mom and Dad, Margo and Joy. Jack is in the muddle, but he is no fragment. He is my safe place. He always knows what I’m feeling, always understands, always fills the void.