my mother says and gazes at my father, missing two gaps in the stream of oncoming traffic that would have allowed her to turn into the complex.My father shifts and yanks irritably at the seat belt’s restraint.“Charles?” my mother says as if waiting for instruction, as if all he has to do is say the word and she’ll flick off her signal light and sail right past the complex and we will never, ever come home again.“What?” he asks.She clears her throat. “Did you really register today?”My father stabs her with a scornful look. “Turn in already,” he says, giving the finger to whoever is blowing the horn behind us. “Jesus Christ, Sharon, I told you I did, didn’t I? What, are you gonna start now, too?”“No, of course not. I’m sorry.” She whips the car through a small break in traffic and zips into the complex. Brakes as a cop holds up his hand. “Charles, I think they’re at your unit.”“They’re in my unit,” my father says and opens the car door.“Wait till I pull over,”
