Page 22 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

“That’s not true,” I say. “Not everywhere. I made my own life.”

Grace appraises the tattoos on the tops of my hands, the dueling sun and moon. I wait for her to compliment them, but her face is slack with disinterest. “Is it a good life?”

“Good enough. I finally made enough money last year to move into an apartment all by myself.”

“Was it, like … hard to find roommates? Because of what you did?”

It takes otherworldly strength to keep from wincing. Her vagueness stings. “All the girls I work with are troubled. Lots of us have been roommates with each other.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Troubled how?”

“Prison. We all took up tattooing while we were inside. My boss, Kiera—she did ten years. She couldn’t get a quote-unquote ‘real’ job when she came out, but she was a brilliant artist. When she started her own shop, she made it a point to hire other people who’d done time. That’s how I started.”

“There wasn’t another skill you could learn?” She points with her spoon to my hand tattoos. “It’s so permanent. Like, what happens when you’re fifty?”

“Then I’m fifty with beautiful artwork on my body.”

“I don’t really like it.”

“You sound like Mom.” The word tastes wrong,Mominstead ofmother. She would hate what I’ve done with my body. “Do you want to talk about her?”

“Why?”

“Maybe you need someone to talk about her with.”

Her eyes narrow. “Got to be honest, you’re not high on my list of people to talk about Mom with.”

“I can probably tell you stories you haven’t heard before.”

“Like what?”

She watches me fumble for a happy recollection that does not exist, her smirk growing wider the longer I flail. “She came to one of my softball games. Just one. But it was the one where I broke the school record for stolen bases. Coach Romanoff dumped Gatorade on me and everything. I was soaked and sticky and gross, but she still hugged me and told me she was proud of me.”

“And what about Dad?” she asks.

“We’re not talking about him.”

“But I’m asking you.”

“He was there, sure,” I say.

“And did he say he was proud of you?”

“Of course he did.”

I leave out the part about him berating me on the drive home. “You could have stolen third in the seventh,” he said. “You weren’t paying attention. I was embarrassed for you.”

I also omit what happened after our mother fell asleep in the back seat, how my father made me atone for my incompetence—at least, I thought she had fallen asleep. She was awake the whole time and she knew. She was just grateful it was me in the passenger seat for once, not her.

I want to tell Grace about the suspicion that brought me back to Annesville, about the throbbing pain in my chest telling me that my father is a murderer, but I keep it inside for now. She’ll know soon enough. It’s only a matter of time before my mother’s body is found, and then she will reach the same conclusion I have: our father must die.

The screen door to the house is open. Each gust of wind beats it against the clapboard exterior like a twenty-one gun salute. There’s no use trying to rush Grace out of the car. He heard us pull up. We have enough time to exchange a solemn look, apologizing to one another for things we lack the vocabulary to verbalize. I wonder if it’s a shared personality trait, innate to both of us, or if it’s a consequence of our upbringing. Nature or nurture. The lines have always been hopelessly blurred to me.

Our father lumbers onto the front porch, armed with a beer and a book, careful to avoid the pitfall of rotting wood beyond the welcome mat. I’ve forgotten reading is one of his hobbies. As often as baseball games provide entertainment in his drunken stupors, so too do books, usually chronicles about ancient Rome or Greece thick enough to double as doorstops. It’s an intellectual pursuit I cannot associate with such a brutish man. I’ve also forgotten he wears reading glasses, and it satisfies me, petty as itis, that my vision is impeccable. Anything to one-up him. Anything to affirm I have become better than him, even in the most insignificant of ways. His face softens as his eyes rove over me. I don’t fall for it.

Grace slingshots out of the car but stops short of approaching him. Her hastily removed lipstick has left a faint pink stain around her lips. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Dad. I—I missed the bus, and …” She lowers her head in contrition.

“Why did she miss the bus, butterfly?”

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