Page 72 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

All the air escapes my lungs, another layer to the susurrus filling the courtroom. My father locks his hands behind his head. I want to see his face, if he is angry or relieved. Regardless of what he feels, he doesn’t share it with Grace. Instead, he claps a hand on the shoulder of the anonymous man beside him, a decidedly masculine gesture of affection. Probably a drinking buddy who will commiserate with him over stouts at the pool hall.

The plea blindsides the everyone, but no one more than Harmony’s lawyer. They exchange words shielded by hands around their mouths. I glean a sliver of satisfaction from having known Harmony might plead not guilty before her own lawyer did—more than a sliver when I consider that I was the one who persuaded her. For the first time in my adult life, I’ve done something a big sister is supposed to do. We’re supposed to be theguiding lights for our little sisters, their shoulders to cry on, their older and wiser confidants, and I don’t have to remind anyone how spectacularly I have failed to live up to those expectations. I steered Harmony away from suffering and protected her from danger. Finally,finally, I’ve gotten it right, and even if I get it wrong for the rest of my life, I have at least tasted redemption today.

The judge sets Harmony’s bail at half a million dollars. She ends the session with another righteous rap of the gavel. Grace shoots me a pointed look as she hurries out of the courtroom, and I know to follow her. We have minutes, maybe even seconds, before my father whisks her away.

In the bathroom, she blots her tears with paper towels, running the sink behind her to drown out her sniffles and snorts. “I’m crying because I’m relieved,” she says before I can speak. “Now there’s a chance. I—oh God, I can finally breathe.”

“I saw the bruise on your hip.”

“This isn’t about me. I’m fine.”

I crank the knob of another sink and check over my shoulder to make sure we’re still alone. “I meant what I said, Grace. He deserves to die.”

“You don’t get it! You’re just like him if you do that. You think your motive makes it just, or pure, or right, but it’s violence all the same. We’ve had enough violence for one lifetime.”

“The motive is exactly what makes it different. It’s why we can fry serial killers in the electric chair and then have a good night’s sleep afterward. Deep down we know it’s right. Some people don’t deserve to walk the earth.”

Grace clenches her eyes shut. “Maybe you could sleep at night, but we’re not all you.”

“You don’t sleep at night as it is. You lie awake for hours and you hold your breath and you pray you don’t hear him walking down the hall.” I pause. “Don’t you wish he was dead?”

“Of course I do! I wish it every day! I want to walk into the living room and see him slumped over on his recliner, clutching his chest.”

“It’s no different than what I want to do.”

She grips the counter, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. A pregnant woman comes through the door, but, sensing the gravity of our conversation, immediately turns to leave.

“It’s not on your conscience, Grace. It’s on mine. It would finally be over—for you, for me, for Harmony, even for Mom. It’s not over until he’s dead.”

“You don’t need to kill him,” she whispers.

“Then I’ll take you back to Missouri with me.”

“I wish I could, but I can’t—I can’t—” She rips another fistful of paper towels from the dispenser and buries her face in them. Makeup streaks across her face like the erratic brushstrokes of an abstract painting. “I’m not your responsibility. I can’t ask you to rearrange your whole life for me. It’s not fair to you.”

“You can’t stay here, Grace. I know I’m late, okay? I should have tried to connect with you years ago, and I’m so sorry I never did. I thought it was better if I stayed far away from you. I was always trouble. Nothing good ever came from being around me.”

“Providence …”

“It’s late, but it’s not too late,” I plead. “Grace, please. Come to Missouri.”

“He’ll never let me leave.”

“Maybe he’s finally tired of it all. Maybe he just wants to have the house to himself so he can get drunk in peace. Maybe everything with Mom, with Harmony—maybe I could make him see reason.”

“Reason with him? You can’t reason with the devil.”

Women stream through the door before I can reply. One recognizes us and offers condolences, rubbing her hands between our shoulders like we are colicky babies to be soothed.

Grace flees the bathroom before I can say goodbye.

The rain is steady like a drumbeat all the way to the reservation. The roads are slick. We nearly fishtail at the state line, one brake pump away from belting off the highway and through the grainy picture of Mount Rushmore on theWelcome to South Dakota!roadside sign, Teddy Roosevelt’s woolly mustache the last earthly thing we see.

Sara preens in the visor mirror, wiping away mascara flakes and smoothing flyaways made frizzy from the rain. Her septum piercing is crooked, but she leaves that imperfection as is. “I can’t tell if you’re not talking because you’re sad,” she says, gripping the handle above the window as we come to a stop, “or you’re concentrating on the road.”

“I’m not a good driver.”

“Tell me how you’re feeling.”

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