Chapter 12
Diane and I did not speak for seven months.
Longer than any silence between us in sixty years.
People assumed I punished her.
I did not.
She refused me.
That distinction mattered.
Then one morning she appeared at my townhouse carrying pastries.
No apology.
Naturally.
We ate in silence.
Finally:
“Newport is nice.”
I looked at her.
“You went?”
“No.”
She watched a video Avice sent another relative.
Beach.
Shells.
Julian cooking badly.
Avice laughing.
Not isolated.
Not lost.
Diane’s theory weakened.
She whispered:
“She looks happy.”
“Yes.”
Another long silence.
Then:
“I thought if he left, he would become like Anthony.”
Her son.
California.
Calls on birthdays.
Rare visits.
“Julian isn’t Anthony.”
“I know.”
“Now?”
She glared.
Progress with thorns.
Then she said:
“I was cruel to Avice.”
Yes.
No softening.
“She brought that card because she wanted to sit beside you.”
“Yes.”
“I saw the padding drawn on it.”
“Yes.”
“And I moved her.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“Because I thought five minutes mattered more than how she felt.”
There.
Clean.
She asked:
“Will you tell her I’m sorry?”
“No.”
Her face changed.
“You tell her when she wants to see you.”
Diane hated waiting.
Excellent medicine.
She nodded.
Then asked:
“Am I still family?”
That question surprised me.
For all her talk about seats, she feared her own place could vanish.
I answered:
“Yes.”
Then:
“Family does not mean unrestricted access.”
May you like
She hated that sentence.
Kept it anyway.
