“Get your elbows off the table and stop staring your aunt down like a hooligan, missy. It’s Christmas,” Mama says.

I straighten up, pick up my wine glass, swirl the red nectar around, and knock back the rest of the glass. I fold my arms across my chest, lean back, and wait for someone to say something.

Peggy does not disappoint, even though her mouth is still half-crammed with potatoes.

“So what’d Sarah Spenser have to say?”

“Peggy, drop it,” Mama says.

“You really wanna know?” But first I grab the wine bottle and watch as the red liquid trickles into the contours of my glass with a slow, controlled pour. “We had tea. She said that if I wanted to know what really happened to my father, maybe I should be grilling you two.” I steadily increase the flow of wine from bottle to glass.

“Horseshit. How about passing me the gravy, Mossy. Anybody else find this turkey dry?” Mama says, her underbite jutting out, teeth pinching and scraping her top lip as she waits for Moss to steer the gravy boat toward her.

Peggy is uncharacteristically quiet, and has developed an unusual interest in rearranging the food on her plate. I stare at her, waiting, trying to figure out which of my buttons she’ll try to push next. But I’m caught off guard when the air around her suddenly solidifies into thick bands of navy, dusty rose, and muted green. The colours seem like they’re pressing down hard on her shoulders, making her slump more than usual. Like they’re trying to push something out of her.

“Peggy, hand me the salt,” Mama says, thunking the gravy boat down on the table. “I forgot to salt the water for these carrots.”

I’m so mesmerized by the colours invading the space around Peggy that I fail to notice the wine kissing the edge of my glass. I stop pouring a millisecond after it starts to spill. I hunch over with pursed lips and slurp from the overflowing glass. Mama clears her throat, and looks around the table for the salt that hasn’t arrived. Then, through the tension and the wine and the wobbling world of hallucinations, it hits me like a ton of technicolour bricks: Peggy knows something. And there are not enough sane, sober brain cells in my head to stop what comes out of my mouth, even as I sense Mama silently pleading with me to shut up.

“You know something.” The heavy bands of colours shudder and shake, but my eyes stay locked on Peggy because now I know something. Those colours are a fortress of secrets built up around her, and I can see it starting to crumble like an old wall. If she tries to deny it, she’ll probably pass out from the stifling shit stink of her own lies. And she knows that, too.

Peggy pulls her head up, her jowls quivering, eyes and nostrils flaring. She starts to speak but Mama cuts her off.