Page 17 of The Broken Note

She smiles at us, one of her pretty smiles that crinkles her eyes and makes her seem like less of a backstabbing drug addict and more like the moms we see on TV. The ones with the flower aprons and forehead kisses and zero childhood-inflicting trauma.

I feel this sharp ache between my ribs when I take her in.

“What are you both just standing there for?” Mom pulls out a chair at the head of the table. “You must be hungry. Sit and eat.”

I notice goosebumps running up Viola’s arm. It’s understandable.

In her mind, mom was actually dead. Why would she question that? We saw them burn her corpse. I held Viola as she wept and wept for days, releasing so much water from her body I thought she’d die of dehydration.

We adjusted to the life of orphans.

Parent-less.

Alone.

We survived.

And now, mom is here in our living room pretending to be normal. Pretending everything’s okay. Pretending all this isn’t messed up.

“Come on.” I tell my sister, nudging her elbow. It’s not like mom will go away if we stand here all night.

“Don’t touch me.” She jerks her arm away.

The snap in her tone cuts me to the bone. So does the flash of hatred in her eyes.

I lower my gaze to the ground and follow her as she stomps to the table.

Mom takes a seat and picks up her fork. “The pasta’s cold. You girls took so long to get back.”

Viola stands behind her chair. Her fingers close around the back of it and she glares into her plate of spaghetti.

“What the hell is this?” my sister hisses.

“What?” Mom plays oblivious. Eyes wide but not innocent. Those eyes can never be innocent again.

Just like mine.

We’ve seen too much of the darkness this world has to offer. Peeled back the layers of civility and touched the worm-infested, underbelly.

There’s no going back once you’ve seen the hopelessness. Felt the pain.

It’s why I want to protect Viola.

It’s why I didn’t want her to know about any of this.

Once that innocence is stripped away, it can never be restored. It’s fragile. Easily shattered. That’s what makes it precious.

“Do you think this is funny?” Viola asks as her knuckles turn white. “You were dead, mom.Dead. And now you’re just…” She sputters. “Sitting here eating spaghetti?”

“You’re right. It’s not that good.” Mom spits out pasta into a napkin, crumples the heap and sets it on her noodles.

I cringe, calculating all the ingredients she wasted. Pasta, tomato sauce, onion, sausages. All the things I’ll have to replace. All the things that cost money to buy. Does she think groceries grow on trees?

Viola slams her hand on the table and screams, “What the hell is going on?”

I cringe.

And mom?

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