Chapter 17

“Too bad I didn’t see my mother at the funeral,” I said. “She must have put on a show.”

“Second only to yours,” Mike replied.

We tossed our cups and plates in the trash and returned to the car. Driving off the ferry, we followed a long line of other vehicles for several miles, then made a left turn toward the nursing home.

“She probably won’t know me anyhow, but I have to say hello and I’m sorry for your loss and all that.”

“What was she like when you were growing up?”

I bit back several answers and finally just said, “Bossy.”

I was frightened, even now, of her moods and her version of the Mexican chancla, or slipper. She had punished with a wooden spoon, several hard whacks on the bare butt or wherever they landed, as long as the marks didn’t show when you went to school. I knew she wasn’t going to do this to me ever again, butthat hadn’t been the only way she hurt. Her words and single raised eyebrow also cut like a knife. I didn’t want to go there, either in memory, or now.