Eighteen
Clara knew the minute she walked into the kitchen that something was wrong.
The only time their mother wasn’t already up and making breakfast before Clara came down was when she was sick, which Clara could remember happening maybe three times in her entire life.
She could hear her father knocking around upstairs, whistling along with the radio.
The note was sitting on the kitchen table, propped up against a wooden bowl full of apples, the glossy beige envelope looking like a wedding invitation.
Clara’s and Bridie’s names were carefully written on the outside in their mother’s distinctive Palmer method script and in the royal-blue ink she favored.
Clara ripped the envelope carelessly and skimmed the sentences quickly, not able to take it all in at once, but catching fragments of the whole.
My darling girls—with Mr. Finnegan—I’ll explain in person—need to see your beautiful faces—don’t believe what other people say—be kind to your father—be good to each other—I’m home Saturday—promise all will be well—love—love—love
Clara stood rooted in place. She heard someone laughing and looked up and realized she was laughing.
This wasn’t real. She tried to make sense of what she’d read.
She walked into the living room, still holding the note, and looked across the street to the Finnegans’ house.
Dune! Was Dune awake and reading a similar madness from his father?
But their house was completely dark and though that was the least strange thing about this morning it nagged at her.
Her father was coming down the stairs and she wanted to run out the front door to Dune’s house or to the fire alarm box at the end of their street to pull the lever and signal this emergency.
She lurched toward the door and stopped when she realized she was wearing torn gym shorts and her faded purple T-shirt from seventh grade that said, I CAN’T BELIEVE I ATE THE WHOLE THING!
She looked dumbly at her father as he entered the living room.
She handed him the note.