I wonder what I want from him, this desiccated remnant of the father who bowed to every opinion Adele voiced. I sit in the chair beside the bed and wait for him to say something of worth to me. What do I want? A deathbed confession of wrongdoing? I want him to tell me that he was wrong not to take my side. Wrong to be sucked into the lie that I had made the whole thing up. Isn’t blood thicker than water?

I am trembling with the desire to hear his confession. Get an apology.

My father says nothing. He is attached to a morphine drip, and I excuse him again for his silence.

Chapter 18

18

Adele is sitting in a kitchen chair. Paul is gone. She says nothing to me, so that the silence of the sickroom and the silence of the kitchen make me think that no one will speak in this house until I go away. But I’m not going anywhere. She asked me to come, I’m here, and she’d damn well better like it. I’ve lost my dog because of this, so giving me the silent treatment is not acceptable.

I’ve lost my dog, my Mack. The thought keeps returning to me, fresh in its intensity each time.

“Got any tuna?” I suddenly realize that I’m really hungry and I’m not going to wait for an invitation.

Adele looks up from studying the pattern in the old tablecloth. “Yes. In the cupboard.”