The Mare

Ginger

I was 95 percent sure she wasn’t telling me the truth — she would’ve convinced me but for that break in her expression, her concentration, then the forceful switch back before she spoke. Still, I didn’t make the call. I made dinner with Paul, acted normal, got the chicken in the oven, then went up the stairs to my workroom, address book in hand. I stared at my failed painting of Melinda, the divided face; ugly woman, haunted girl. That break in Velvet’s expression, in her concentration, the pain — I had to call, if only to try and make her mother come. Instead I sat and stared at the picture of my dead sister and felt my flesh tingle with the words no and don’t. Over and over: No. Don’t. The hair on my arm stood up. I heard Velvet come in the door and go into the kitchen. I went back downstairs thinking, I’ll do it later.