A look came over Trevor that indicated the roller coaster was starting up again — the pre-flipping-over-of-the-dinnerplate look. Next, I knew — from the water jug, from the moment before he knocked the dishpan into the sink — his eyes would bulge and a stillness would overtake the room. At that point all you could do was brace yourself for what came next. But this time felt different, bigger. This time Trevor’s nostrils actually flared and the stillness felt unending, like a time warp. It was like when you feel a sneeze coming on, how the ah gets drawn out before the eruption of the choo. The longer the ah, the bigger the choo. It felt as if a very big choo was on its way.

But I didn’t even register this, not consciously anyway. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel its throbbing pressure behind my eyes. I was so furious — dangerously furious, I thought later. Because whatever came next, it wasn’t just that I was convinced I was ready for it — it was that I wanted it. I wanted the big choo, the explosion, the irrevocable thing I’d been so frightened of and desperate to avoid these past twelve hours. Now — fuck it. Bring it. Let it all rain down.

Shreeeeeeee — ehhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrkkkk!

The noise was something between a shriek and a death-­rattle — high-pitched and grinding. It wasn’t coming from Trevor. I leapt away from the counter in alarm because the counter was trembling. The noise was coming from the dishwasher.

Trevor’s eyebrows plunged. “Jesus, what’s —”

The moment he spoke, the death-shriek of the churning Sunbeam dropped to an almost reassuring whirr, then became a less reassuring gurgle, then, just when it sounded about to give up the ghost, it soared back into an eardrum-piercing yowl. I backed away from it, plugging my ears. At the same time, Trevor lurched forward, reaching for the dishwasher’s off button. But before he got there, his face contorted.

“Agh!” he said, and spasmodically lifted one leg. He grabbed himself by the ankle and peered at the bottom of his white-socked foot.

“Fucking piece of glass!” said Trevor, and collapsed, writhing, into a chair.

I moved without thinking. I went into the living room and almost bashed into Kelli, who had risen from her perch and was lurching toward the kitchen with an affronted look to complain about the noise.

“Let’s go, Kell,” I said, and took her hand.

34

Things happened very fast after that. Not the things I wanted to happen. In my mind, in that moment I took Kelli by the hand, events unfolded something like this: Trevor had not heard my words to Kelli over the last gasps of the dishwasher. As I pulled her down the stairs into the foyer, I’d explain to her that the dishwasher was broken and therefore we were going out to dinner — at Swiss Chalet! Considering Kelli had to be starving by that point, I figured that would light a fire under her. Trevor would have his sock off, examining his foot. Maybe he’d still be distracted enough by the noise and the pain not to notice what was going on. Descending the stairs — me in my sneakers and Kelli in her slipper-shoes — I’d try to remember if my car keys had been in my purse when I went rifling through it for my phone this morning. I couldn’t remember if I’d heard the usual jangling sound they made in the always-opened zippered pocket where I kept them. But I wouldn’t stop to check. I’d just grab the purse, stick my hand in to root around as Kelli and I kept moving, through the front door, and if, by the time we got to the car I had not found my keys, we would simply keep going across the street — Change of plans, Kell! — and start pounding on Mr. Gill or Marilyn’s front door.