She never offered to help me figure out the arithmetic.

I often wonder where my father was when she was jabbing me with a finger or shoving me ahead of her to my room. Or chastising me for not closing the peanut butter jar tight enough or the bread wrapper secure enough. Or slapping me because she interpreted my response to some demand or question as impertinent. “I will not have impertinence.” I thought impertinence was a venal sin. I would have confessed it had she ever taken me to confession. I’m not making it up, remembering it wrong, when I believe that Paul never suffered any of these physical and verbal assaults. He fluttered in and out of the kitchen, on his way to a practice or a game, or to meet up with friends, leaving the jars open and the bread hanging out of the wrapper like a tongue. He wasn’t expected to sit at the kitchen table to do his homework; his homework was done in the privacy of his room. A gentle knock and reminder not to stay up too late, the only words his mother ever said to him on the subject. I know for a fact he wasn’t burning the candle on his homework. He was doing other things, things that I could hear through the thin wall of my former walk-in closet.

I wonder if Paul will be there today. As the Bonanza bus nears the transportation center in New Bedford, I notice that my hands are shaking in a barely visible tremor. Nerves. I haven’t seen any of these people, my family, in years. I might not even recognize Paul. The last time I saw him was maybe ten years ago. I really can’t recall. I came back for his wedding. I had received an invitation and I have no doubt that it was the subject of great debate, whether or not to waste an invitation on me. I was long gone. Paul and I had never kept in touch. I knew that it was a courtesy invitation, probably sent because the poor bride had foolishly insisted that I get one, harboring some prebridal expectation that she’d be able to heal family rifts out of kindness. I was just contrary enough to tick off “Yes, I will attend” on the tiny RSVP card. I mailed it to the bride’s mother, wondering if she had any idea who Justine Meade was. I’d gone back to my maiden name a couple of years after leaving Anthony. In a further act of defiance, I changed Tony’s name to Meade, too. He was young enough that changing his name seemed like a normal thing to do. Another new school, another new neighborhood. Another name. Simple.

Maybe it was more like eighteen years ago. Time has a way of zipping by, the mile markers racking up so fast, whole decades disappear from sight in the rearview mirror.