It has been something of a shock to me, to hear such remarks uttered by my sister. This sudden aerial perspective of our parents’ marriage is new to me. And this new sister, so thoughtful, analytical—this hardly seems like the timid girl I remember.

“But Daddy loved Mom, in his way. He loved us all—that was what made him so dangerous. When you love someone like that you can turn on them viciously—the way Daddy turned on you.”

Wanting to ask my sister—But do you think Daddy would have forgiven me? Eventually? But no, of course I won’t ask.

IT IS TRUE, I AM FRIGHTENED OF SEEING MY MOTHER AFTER SO many years.

Last glimpse I’d had of Mom she was walking away from me in the “safe house.” Drugged and unsteady on her feet but determined to escape me.

Hard to avoid acknowledging the fact that my mother had abandoned me. Made me into an orphan. Why?

She’d loved your brothers more. No—she’d loved your father more.

Like a memory of having been poisoned by something you’d eaten. Barely managed to survive. And yet—here is the food again . . . And you are hungry.

But Katie has assured me: Mom wants to see me, this will not be an unpleasant surprise to her.

Our grandfather’s funeral had been too soon. They wouldn’t have been ready to see me yet, Katie says. But now . . .

And yet: I am shivering with anticipation, that somehow in her medicated state, distraught or depressed from Daddy’s death, Mom will not remember that this visit has been planned, that I am in South Niagara staying with Katie.

Or, Mom may remember. But may have changed her mind about seeing me again.

Rat-girl! You.

Driving to the new address that is only a few blocks from our old house I am making a conscious decision not to drive by 388 Black Rock on the way. The house in which I’d lived for twelve years. The only house I remember, deep-imprinted in my soul.

Better not. Not now. Another day.

For on Black Rock Street I will see—again—the dead end, the uncultivated land, dirt paths leading to the edge above the rushing Niagara River.

The scrubby-wooded area where my brothers buried the baseball bat. Where they’d buried the murdered black boy, kicked dirt and leaves over him in his shallow grave . . .

In some of my confused dreams, this was so. The murdered boy buried with the baseball bat in a shallow grave.

In another dream, I’d seen my brothers kick other things into the grave—broken bicycle, a baseball cap . . .