ON Christmas and Easter, my mother forced Josh and me to wear fancy clothes made out of heavy, unfamiliar fabrics—velvet and taffeta for me, wool for Josh—and to go to church. My father always stayed home and labored over his latest manuscript. You go listen to your stories, he told her, and I’ll stay here and work on mine. When I was very little, I worried about his soul for saying that. It was a performance, twice a year, on schedule: clacking down the aisle in too-tight Mary Janes, sitting up straight, bowing my head at the appropriate times, sneaking games of hangman with Josh when our mother wasn’t paying attention, which was almost never. We were her puppets, all gangly legs and big bright eyes, bobbing our heads on command. No more. She can’t control me, not even from Paris. I will not spend another night in this place. I’ll leave tonight. No one can stop me. At dinner, I execute a performance of my own. It is truly remarkable. I am calm. Composed. I sit across from the Cottage Three girls and Hannah and I slice my rubbery chicken breast with the artificial grill lines into pieces.
