—

She stands at the kitchen counter, carves a steak, her long hair swept into a chignon. The meat is too red for me, so she puts several slices back in the oven, even though she calls overcooking it a crime. While we wait, I sit at the counter and play with the snow globe she bought for my birthday. A little mama is inside it and a little me is on a swing, hair in braids. When I shake the globe, Little Mama pushes me, and snowflakes fall. It’s my favorite present ever.

Mama makes a salad. There’s a knock on the front door. “That’s probably the woman.”

“What woman?” I ask.

“Mama tried to help someone who lost her little boy.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes. But it was too late. She asked to stop by. Go ahead and answer the door.”

Bare feet pad across a soft rug, onto floors Mama calls bird’s-eye maple. I reach up to the bronze knob and open the gray door. A woman pushes past me. She has frizzy blond hair, wears a yellow coat, matching gloves, and her face is pinched like she bit a lime. Brown eyes float in a sea of squiggly red lines. She smells sharp, wrong, and she’s much bigger than Mama, both higher and wider. I close the door to keep the rain out. The woman tracks water and mud toward the kitchen, her steps unsteady.

Mama looks up from slicing carrots with the big steak knife I’m not allowed to touch. “Bonsoir, Tally. I’m so very, very sorry for your loss. The police said I shouldn’t contact you; should wait to see if you wanted to speak further . . . I’m truly sorry. How can I help?”

“Help?” Tally demands. “How could you?” Her voice is too loud, slurry.

“Mama?”

“Birdie, go to your room, please.”

“No,” Tally snaps. “Let her hear this. She should know what her precious mama did. Donald was my only child. My ONLY! How would you feel if someone told the police those disgusting things about your precious Birdie? I HAD TO IDENTIFY THE BODY! I know EVERYTHING that happened to him. EVERYTHING. Oh God oh God oh God my little boy . . .”

Mama holds up her hands like Tally is a wild animal she’s trying to calm. “Birdie, your room. Now.”

Tally rounds the counter, shoves Mama hard, and she stumbles.

Mama says, “You asked the police to contact me. You wanted help finding Donald. I found him.”

“In a warehouse. He’d been TORTURED for a month. RAPED. STRANGLED five days before the cops found him. FIVE DAYS,” she sobs. “You could have found him before then!”

Mama puts a hand on Tally’s back. “I’m so sorry . . . I tried. What happened was horrible, but your boy, he is at peace now. That is hard to understand. It will take time. But he wants the same for you.”

“Fuck you!” Tally screams and hits mama hard on her face.