The radio played. The car filled with the voice of an enthusiastic DJ commanding his audience to dial in and win a shopping spree at WalMart. My sister hovered over our mother, who was crying so softly that I was no longer sure that she was. Equally as quiet were the words she said when she finally spoke. “Forgive me.”

F-O-R-G-I-V-E M-E

Alone in the backseat of the car, I broadened my shoulders and tried to convince my body that it was brave. Matilda’s arms were folded across her chest. Even though sometimes it’s hard for me to tell when something is wrong, this time I knew. I knew it when the fighting between my mother and grandmother got so loud, I could hear the words without pressing my ear up against the door. It was my mother’s voice that was the loudest.

“There is no other way!” My mother yelled and then grumbled something that sounded like bullets being shot underwater. Their bitter exchanges continued over the next few days, my mother’s voice humming like a sewing machine, chasing my grandmother from one room to the next. She was relentless until finally one night she reached into her purse, pulled out a brass-colored key, and laid it on the table. My grandmother swiped her arm across the surface, sending it flying to the floor, and then she ran out of the room.

That night their fighting was too quiet to hear.

Matilda and I stayed in the kitchen, watching television on the small blackandwhite perched on the counter. We sat in red vinyl chairs until it was time for bed; we turned up the volume so loud that it made the air around us shake. In the morning, we acted like we always did. My grandmother was making toast and I remember breathing in the smell.

I wondered what my grandmother was doing now while I sat in the backseat of my mother’s car, counting the number of times her shoulders bounced up and down. My sister reached over to twist the radio dial, first slowly and then faster, until all I heard were electrical bleeps and broken, cracked words. My mother wiped her face with her fingers and then pulled back into traffic. This time, instead of tapping out the rhythm of a song, she gripped the steering wheel tightly and focused with a determination that reminded me of a heavy rainstorm. We turned streets and passed neighborhoods that grew less familiar until finally we pulled up beside a small white house. We got out of the car, my mother first with Matilda and me trailing behind. I reached out to hold my sister’s hand.

“Where are we?” Matilda asked.

My mother kept walking, as if she didn’t hear.

“Why are we here?” Matilda now asked, this time the shake in her voice broke up her words and made it sound like she was out of breath.