The words are like cotton.

They puff out

of my mouth.

Momma turns back again,

faces me.

The smile is there.

Your sister said she wanted

to help me make some money,

Momma says.

She takes a quiet step closer.

She holds out her hands, palms up,

like maybe she didn’t have

a choice in things.

I back away from her.

We aren’t that much apart in size.

In fact, I stand a little taller than her.

I will fight her if I have to.

What you did,

I say,

is all wrong.

At first I am not even

sure she hears me.

What have I done that’s so bad?

Momma says.

What, Hope?

I’ve given you a home.

Made sure you have

food on the table.

Let you go to Mari’s.

This is all true.

But there’s the diary,

my head says.

And Liz trying to die.

And her being away.

Haven’t I done all that

for you?

Yes, Momma,

I say.

But . . .

But what?

Momma is close now.

So close

I could hug her

or slap her.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Do it,

I think.

Do it.

Say it.

It’s all a lie,

I say.

You are all a lie.

Momma doesn’t even move.

She just stares at me.

Her mouth falls

open.

And she looks and looks at me.

I touch my fingers

to my lips.

It’s not a lie,

Momma says.

It’s true, Hope.

For a moment, I almost believe her.

Then I remember the diary.

The words.

My sister.

The ways she’s tried to

end

her

life.

Momma takes in a

breath,

rocks back on her heels.

Then she says,

Lizzie owes

me.

And you, Hope.

She owes you, too.

What?

My fingers are

still there, still touching

my lips, but

the word gets past.

What do you mean she owes us?

Momma keeps rocking

and her arms go around

herself.

She owes us for

taking your daddy

from us.

What?

Being sick

that night,

Momma says,

looking up at me,

and I see she believes

what she’s saying.

For her being sick

and him going

out

in all that rain

and sliding under

that truck

and not coming back.

She owes us for that.

Taking my man.

And your daddy.

I swallow again and again.

She

was

just

six,

I say.

But Momma is away and thinking

something.

Then she says,

She’s in the hospital,

She’s safe.

The doctors will help her.

And I promise

I won’t let nothing

happen to her again.

We’ll bring her here

on Monday and

she’ll be safe with us.

Okay? How’s that?

I’ll make it all better,

Momma says.

Again, I almost believe

until she says,

Now give me that diary.

I wait.

Don’t say a thing.

And then, blood pumping,

fear streaking,

eyes dried out from too

much crying.

It’s gone,

I say.

The diary is gone.

I threw it in the river.

Momma catches

hold of my arm.

Give me that diary,