My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
I stared at the yellowed police form under the green desk lamp.
My fingers stayed pressed against the cool paper of the report for five seconds before I folded it back into the blue folder. I slid the entire file under the strap of my canvas bag, tucking the heavy cotton over the cardboard so nothing showed.
When I walked back into the living room, the grandfather clock in the corner was ticking toward a quarter past ten.
My mother stood by the fireplace, her fingers locked around her pearl necklace, pulling the string so tight the small white beads pressed deep into her skin. Christopher sat on the edge of the striped armchair, his hands flat on his knees, his face completely still in the lamplight. My father was on the sofa, his fingers tapping a slow, irregular rhythm on his armrest.
“We have had enough of this theater,” my mother said, her voice dropping into that low, flat register she used when she was fixing a mistake.
She did not look at me. Her eyes were pinned to the charcoal wool of Christopher’s sweater, specifically to the spot near his collarbone where the thick scar hid beneath the knit.
