“I smoke sometimes,” Caroline said, and she flicked her ashes inexpertly into a heavy crystal tumbler Minna had set out earlier for guests of the memorial, which was posed next to the bottle on a leather ottoman. Caroline had poured her whiskey into one of the tall water glasses, no ice.

“No, you don’t,” Minna said, crossing the room to haul open the window. No wonder she had smelled smoke. “And you don’t drink whiskey, either.” Her mother stuck to vodka—colorless, odorless, like a South American poison in an old murder mystery that kills before anyone realizes it’s been administered.

“Tonight calls for whiskey,” Caroline said and tipped a little more into her glass. “Do you want some?”

“No,” Minna said automatically. The wind smelled like wild heather and rain—a sweet smell that brought back a memory of getting caught in a downpour with her dad outside the supermarket; how they’d run together, laughing, sloshing through puddles that had sprung up in a moment, how the paper bags had gotten soaked through, collapsed, and they’d scattered groceries as they ran. She was tired. And she did want a drink. Badly. She turned away from the window. “Yes. I’ll get a glass.”

She returned to the dining room and took a tumbler from the sideboard—then, thinking better of it, she grabbed one of the tall glasses and used the tumbler instead for retrieving ice from the freezer. When she got back to the living room, her mom had lit another cigarette.

Minna sat down on the floor next to the ottoman. Her thighs ached, and her br**sts from where Gary, or Jerry, had mauled them. But sitting cross-legged, barefoot, in front of her mom made her feel like a kid again and reminded her of childhood Christmases. There had been plenty of Christmases out in California, when they’d gone to church in sandals and T-shirts, opening presents while palm trees hailed them from outside. But nothing compared to the Christmases in Coral River, when the world was blotted out by white, and Trenton toddled through layers of discarded wrapping paper like an explorer fording a river.

The whiskey tasted awful, but left a good feeling in her stomach: a slow spread of warmth, a flushed feeling, like when someone really good-looking leaned in and touched your lower back. It had been a long time since she’d felt that way when a man touched her.

Maybe it had been forever.

They drank in silence for a bit. Minna’s head began to feel pleasant and clouded.

“I was thinking about your father,” Caroline said, out of nowhere. She was staring out the window. “I was thinking of what I would say tomorrow.”

“Tell the truth,” Minna says.

“How can I?” she said. “He was a cheater. And a liar. He was selfish.” She shook her head. “But there were times . . . I do think he loved us. He did love us, in his way. As much as he could. I’m sure of it.” Her voice broke.

Minna said nothing. She wasn’t sure of it and had never been. Her throat was tight, and it was difficult to get the whiskey down.

“He was so proud of you.” Caroline’s words were getting slurry. “You and Trenton. When the accident happened . . . I couldn’t even tell your father. He was already sick. It would have broken his heart.”

“I doubt it,” Minna said. She reached back through the cloud, through the fog, trying to resurrect memories of her father; but instead she kept picturing Mr. Hansley, and his wrinkled chino pants, and his soft voice whispering in her ear—“That’s it, Minna. Just like that. Beautiful,” as he rocked his erection against her back, and she sat stiff and terrified, moving nothing but her hands—playing Chopin’s Étude in C Major, Bach’s Concerto no. 7, as though she could escape up and out through the music.

Minna poured out more whiskey and was surprised to see they were already halfway through the bottle. She wanted to forget Mr. Hansley. She tried to press him back into the soft darkness of her mind, as she had tried then to ignore what was happening, to deny it—but he stayed, and his hardness stayed, resolute and undeniable, like an accusatory finger pointing at her, marking her.

Her father should have known. He should have protected her.

She had never once, in all her life, allowed herself to think the words—but they were there, suddenly, and she knew she was going to cry.

Caroline was still talking. “He called me every week, just to see how you were doing. You and Trenton. Sometimes he called every day.”

“Why didn’t he call me, then?” Minna turned to the window, too, fighting the squeeze in her throat, the sharp sudden pain behind her eyes. She took another long sip of whiskey. It didn’t taste so bad anymore. It eased the tightness in her throat, too.

“He probably knew you wouldn’t pick up,” Caroline said. “You’re busy. He knew that.”

The window showed an indistinct reflection of the lamp and Minna’s face, her eyes carved into black hollows. Outside, beyond the screen, she could hear the low song of crickets in the grass. What the hell did they sing for, she wondered? Probably something to do with mating. But it sounded like mourning to her.

“I got fired, Mom,” Minna blurted out. She didn’t turn to look at her mom’s face. She couldn’t stand it. She closed her eyes quickly and listened to the cricket song, constant as a tide, in and out, rising up to meet the darkness; bringing darkness down into the song. “I was screwing the accounts manager. My boss found out. Against company policy.”

“Minna . . . ” Caroline started to say.

But Minna found she couldn’t stop, now that she had started to speak. The words, too, were like a tide, long suppressed, suddenly rolling out of her. “Remember when I worked at SKP? There it was the mail guy. And one of the interns.”

“Minna, you really don’t need to—”

“You want to know why Trenton hates me?” Minna turned, finally, to her mom. Caroline was framed perfectly by the lamplight, stiff-white, horrified, like an actress in a play. “Family weekend. Remember family weekend? I told you I ran into an old friend so you put Amy to bed. But I didn’t. I didn’t run into anybody. I—I went back to the dorms with one of the seniors. Conrad. He was only eighteen.” She looked down at her hands. Her cheeks were burning, but she was surprised when she saw tears appear suddenly on her palms. She didn’t know when she had started to cry.

“Trenton doesn’t hate you,” Caroline said.

Still the words were coming. And the tears, too. Minna couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. It must have been years. But it was like all that frozen stuff had finally cracked open, and now everything was running, pouring, bleeding out, like the ground during the first big thaw of the year. “I slept with Danny’s best friend at prom. In the bathroom. I slept with a taxi driver once, in college. He was taking me to a friend’s house for Christmas Eve, over break.” The crickets were still singing; the note was swelling higher, louder, like a wave about to break. Like the high notes at the end of Bach’s Solo for Cello in G Major: one of her favorite pieces of music. “And I hated piano. I hated Mr. Hansley. He used to—rub against me when I played. He made me put my hands on him. He made me put my hands all over him.”