“Do you know what time it is? Where are you?” Her mother was trying to keep her voice down. Doubtless her father was asleep.

“Wait, just give me a second.”

There was a pause, then shuffling on the other end. Katrina was grateful for the break. She took a breath. Talking to her mother would be more difficult than she’d thought it would be.

“I’m in the kitchen now,” her mother finally said. “Your father can’t hear us. Michael.”

“M-Mother, I know I left so soon,” Katrina managed to say. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m okay.”

“Okay? Nothing is okay! You need to come home right away.”

“I’m sor—” Katrina stopped herself.

What was she about to say? That she was sorry? That she wished she could come home?

“Do you have any idea how angry your father is? And he’s been drinking.”

Of course he was! Pissed off and drunk as usual. Eternal damnation notwithstanding, why should she apologize for leaving that?

But before Katrina could respond, she heard what sounded like soft crying.

“Mijo, p-please … Y-your father. He…”

The voice trailed off.

“Mamá! Are you okay?” Even though Katrina had escaped, her mother was still living in that house, with that man …

And then it happened, just as it had so many times before.

“What do you mean? I’m fine.”

Her mother’s tone had changed immediately, becoming lighter, more casual, almost as if she were singing.

“Your father really loves us, you know,” her mother continued. “You have no idea how hard he works. Michael, why don’t you understand? It’s only bad when we make him angry. Michael? Michael?”

Katrina tried to say I love you, but the words refused to leave her mouth.

“Take care, Mother.”

Katrina ended the call and blocked the number.

She had wanted to say that she was Katrina, not Michael. She had wanted to say that she would never apologize for being queer, for being a woman.

Katrina had wanted to say that she wished her mother had sung to her in Spanish, taught her about tomatillos.

Katrina had wanted to say she wished her mother had told her, when her cousins sang “butterfly” at her that Thanksgiving night, that butterflies were also the children of God.

Katrina had wanted to say she had watched her all these years, watched her mother lose herself because her father demanded it—and that even if they never saw each other again, to please listen to her music, please listen, and hear.

But now? There was nothing that Katrina wanted to say.

Not long after, her phone buzzed. Shirley was sending her a message.

But Katrina did not hear, for she was finally asleep.

35

In the morning, Astrid served Katrina cheese, toast, muesli, and some fresh tangerine juice.

Shizuka came downstairs. Katrina gasped. She seemed delicate, almost fragile. But there was no denying her presence, her command.