Page 51 of How to Walk Away

The tone right there would have shut me right up. But Kit was always the braver one. “I don’t think it’s her you’re worried about. I think it’s you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” my mother said, looking away. In that moment, I knew that whatever it was they were talking about, Kit was right.

“Tell her,” Kit pressed. “Tell her right now. This has gone on too long.”

“I won’t.”

“Tell her—or I will.”

My mother’s eyes looked wild. She had not expected this moment to rise up so fast—out of nowhere, really, like a flash flood: Kit showing up and making these sudden demands. One minute, my mother was tryingto manipulate me—solid, comfortable ground for her—and the next, Kitty was manipulating her. I could see my mom’s mind spinning, trying to come up with a way to stop her.

Kit turned to me. “On the night I left, it was because Mom and I fought.”

“Stop it,” my mother said, her whole body tense.

“I remember,” I said to Kit. “You pushed her into the pool.”

“I pushed her into the pool because she wouldn’t answer a question.”

“Stop!” my mother said again, eyes on Kit. “What do I have to threaten you with? Never speaking to you again?”

“You already don’t speak to me. I’m not sure you ever did.”

But my mom was still searching. “Cutting you out of my will! Not giving you Grandma’s ruby ring!”

“I don’t need to be in your will,” Kit said. “I don’t need a ring. I need my only sister”—and here her voice rose to a shout—“to understand what the hell is going on here!”

My mother blinked.

Kit turned back to me. “Remember when I was working for that genealogist?”

I shook my head. “Vaguely.”

“She had that business helping people find their ancestors and trace their family histories?”

I squinted. “Okay. Sort of.” I did not see where this was going.

“She talked me into having my DNA analyzed. She had a bulk discount with a mail-in company. She was sending in several samples, and she had an extra kit, and so I just did it. On a whim.”

I frowned. “I have no memory of that.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Kit said. “I didn’t tell anybody. Why would I? The results weren’t going to be interesting.”

True. We could recite our various heritages in that way that lots of Americans can. Our mom had a little bit of lots of places. Irish, English, German, Canadian, French, and even, rumor had it, some Huron. Our dad’s family, in contrast, was all Norwegian. His Norwegian ancestorshad immigrated to an all-Norwegian town in Minnesota where Norwegians just married other Norwegians for generations—until one day, my dad’s dad moved their family to Texas and broke the trend.

“Huh,” I said. “So you, like, sent in your blood?”

“Saliva, actually.”

Then there was a pause.

Kit looked at my mother.

My mother looked at Kit.

“Did you learn anything?” I finally asked.

“Yes,” Kit said.

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