Chapter 7 - The List
"I never canceled anything in your name."
I put my phone on the counter.
"Anniversary dinner. Megan's birthday. Thanksgiving."
Karen folded her arms.
"You knew he wasn't coming."
"I knew the reasons you gave me."
For a moment, she seemed ready to argue the difference away.
Then her shoulders dropped.
"I wanted one part of our lives to feel easy."
"Easy for who?"
"You don't know what my mother says afterward. About his jacket. His stories. The way he wipes his plate with bread."
"So you removed the person least likely to fight back."
She flinched.
"That's unfair."
"Is it wrong?"
She stared at the coffee cups.
"No."
I waited.
"Christmas brunch last year," she said.
"And Mother's Day. I told him you were taking me out alone."
We'd taken her parents too.
I'd sent Dad a picture from the restaurant.
I remembered the little thumbs-up he'd sent back.
My stomach turned.
"Did you ever tell him I didn't want him there?"
Karen covered her mouth.
"Karen."
"I said you needed space sometimes."
I stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.
"From my father?"
"You were working late. You were exhausted. He kept asking when we'd be free."
"Because he wanted to see us."
"I know that now."
"You knew it then."
She began to cry.
I didn't enjoy it.
I'd loved her through her own father's surgery, a miscarriage, and nights when she thought she'd never find work again.
Her pain still moved me.
It just couldn't erase his.
"I want counseling," I said.
"And space. I'll stay somewhere else while we decide what happens next."
"You're leaving me?"
"I'm not going to promise we're fine so you can stop being afraid."
I packed a suitcase.
Before I left, I called the guests we'd stranded and apologized for leaving them in the middle of our argument.
I didn't lie about why I'd gone.
Karen's brother, Paul, listened without interrupting.
"Mom told us Jack canceled at the last minute," he said.
"He didn't."
"You could've called me. I'd have brought another chair."
I looked toward the basement door.
We'd had enough chairs all along.
"I know."
"And for the record, I can buy my own dinner. I'm upset about the lying."
When I hung up, Karen stood in the hallway holding the sealed photographs.
"He said that?"
"You can ask him. He's your brother."
She looked at the envelope as though it had become too heavy to carry.
In the driveway, Dad called.
"Postponed my ticket," he said.
I shut my eyes.
May you like
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. A fellow's coming Monday to look at the garage equipment."
