Chapter 4 — The Extubation

By 5:30 the dining room was Melissa’s theater. Linen napkins folded into swans. Tapered candles down the center of the oak table. But what turned my stomach was the china on the buffet: my mother’s white-and-gold wedding set from 1979, the plates we were forbidden to touch except at Thanksgiving.

Sandra ran a finger along a gold rim. “Wherever did you find these, Melissa?”

“Oh,” Melissa waved a hand. “They came with the house.”

Came with the house. In her version of things, my mother was a fixture — an appliance included in the bailout.

Sandra snapped her fingers toward the kitchen. “Ellen! We need ice.”

I stepped into the archway holding a crystal bucket. “I’ve got the ice, Sandra.”