My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
She walked to the small table by the hallway door where the landline phone sat on its brass stand. Her fingers hovered over the plastic buttons, her manicured nail resting on the number nine.
“I will tell Deputy Miller exactly who is sitting in our living room,” she said.
Christopher looked at her, his eyes steady, almost gentle, as if he were studying a piece of wood with a hidden knot.
“You remember the deputy’s name,” Christopher said.
The room went entirely quiet, except for the hum of the old space heater in the corner of the hall. My mother’s hand stayed over the telephone receiver, her knuckles white against the black plastic.
“Everyone in this township knows the deputies,” she said.
“I suppose they do,” Christopher said.
He turned toward me, his movements slow and unhurried, as if we were simply leaving a restaurant after a quiet dinner.
“We should get our coats, Mia,” he said.
I did not look at my mother as I walked past her toward the hallway closet. My shoulder brushed against the doorframe, and the heavy canvas bag clinked against the wood, the stiff blue folder inside shifting against my wallet.
