She’ll wait for you. Stay with me. Don’t leave me on my own.

The first note of desperation rising through her voice, tainting the air like toxic smoke. I whipped my hand out from under hers as if it had burned me. Tomorrow at home I would have been ready for this, but not here, not now. The unfairness of it slashed like a whip across the face, left me stunned, outraged, blinded. Mum. Just don’t.

Her hand still outstretched towards mine, ready to clutch. Please, Mikey. I need you.

So what? It exploded out of me, took all my breath and left me panting. I wanted to punch her out of my way, out of my world. I’m so fucking sick of taking care of you! You’re the one who’s supposed to be taking care of me!

Her face, stricken, openmouthed. The sunset light gilding away the gray in her hair, turning her young and shimmering, ready to vanish into its blinding brightness. Oh, Mike. Oh, Mike, I’m so sorry—

Yeah. I know. Me too. I was shifting on the chair, scarlet with shame and defiance and hideous embarrassment, dying to get out of there even more. Just forget it. I didn’t mean it.

You did. I know you did. And you’re right. You shouldn’t have to … Oh, God. Oh, love, I’m so sorry.

It’s OK. It’s fine. Bright flashes of color were moving in the dunes, long-legged shadows stretching in front of them as they ran towards the water. A girl laughed; I couldn’t tell whether it was Amelia. Can I go?

Yes. Of course. Go. Her hand twisting among the flowers of her skirt. Don’t worry, Mike, love. I won’t do this to you again. I promise. You have a gorgeous evening.

As I jumped up—already putting up a hand to gingerly triple-check my hair, running my tongue over my teeth to make sure they were clean—she caught me by the sleeve. Mum, I have to—

I know. Just a second. She pulled me down, pressed her hands to my cheeks and kissed my forehead. She smelled of coconut suntan oil, of salt, of summer, of my mother.

Afterwards people blamed my father. We had done a good job, he and I and Geri, of keeping our secret locked safe inside our own four walls; too good. No one had ever suspected the days when my mother couldn’t stop crying, the weeks when she lay in bed staring at the wall; but back then neighbors watched out for each other, or watched each other, I’m not sure which it was. The whole road knew there had been weeks when she didn’t come out of the house, days when she could only manage a faint hello or when she tucked her head down and scurried away from their curious eyes.

The adults tried to be subtle, but every condolence had a question swaying in the undercurrent; the guys in school didn’t even try, half the time. They all wanted to know the same things. When she kept her head down, was she hiding black eyes? When she stayed indoors, was she waiting for ribs to heal? When she went into the water, was it because my father had sent her there?