At least things is gonna be

quieter around here.

But I heard the shakiness

in my momma’s voice,

even over Liz’s weeping.

89.

You seen them damn painted horses?

Momma says a few days later.

She’s gone back to the old house,

a couple of times

looking through the things

we left behind

for that diary of

Lizzie’s.

What horses?

I say,

scrubbing out the kitchen sink

whilst Momma strums

her guitar.

She likes the trailer kept

neat

even when she makes

the messes.

Them damn things is

what Lizzie makes in his office,

Momma says.

Talks to him while

she glues that stuff together.

I remember the shaky

lines painted down the

sides of a palomino,

the eye decals glued on crooked.

I’m in the wrong business,

Momma says,

and she sets the guitar down

with a musical thump.

I should be working with crazies,

Momma says.

I could instruct someone

to put together a Model T.

A three-hundred-and-fifty

dollar plastic piece of crap.

We’d be living

high off the hog,

just like he does.

Then she is gone,

stomping from the room

and out the trailer.

I hear the car start

and roar away.

When I rinse the sink,

I see my hands shake.

Good grief

get ahold of yourself,

Hope,

I think.

I hurry myself along.

I sweep,

wipe down the fridge,

damp mop the floor,

then dust Momma’s little

collection of salt and pepper

shakers.

The whole time I work

I bite at my bottom lip

until

it bleeds.

Then I move out of the

kitchen in slow motion

out the door

away from here.

I walk like a Seminole Indian

might, my feet not

even making a sound.

Maybe not even touching

the ground

I’m so quiet.

I walk,

checking every once in a while,

over my shoulder.

90.

Who does all the pictures?

I say.

Another visit with the doctor.

Dr. Marino looks at me over

the top of his glasses.

A habit of his,

I guess.

He says,

Children I’ve worked with.
Clients.

I get up

and make my way

around the room,

looking at the drawings.

Lots of war.

Crying people.

Blood.

One rainbow picture

with a whole family standing under it.

I check that one for

Lizzie’s name.

Carlos, it says.

What makes you feel safe, Hope?

he says.

I sit now.

It’s cold in here.

The carpet’s too soft

and the lights are too bright.

I say,

What do you mean?

You know,

he says.

Where do you feel secure?

I think.

With Liz.

With Mari.

In school.

Air-conditioning

fills the room with

a low buzz.

How about at home?

Do you feel safe there?

I shrug.

I guess so,

I say.

With your mom?

he asks

At first I can’t say anything.

It’s not like Momma hits us

or anything.

But still.

Things have changed.

Changed.

This move, for one.

Before

when it was

all of us

Daddy, Momma, me, and Lizzie.

Then

it was

good.

Great, even. Liz has told