My coffee cup slipped from my hand.
The woman pressed her palm to the glass.
My mother was alive.
PART 7 — THE MOTHER WHO CAME BACK FROM THE GRAVE
I could not move.
The woman opened the French door and stepped onto the terrace.
“Vivian.”
My name broke in her mouth.
I had heard recordings of my mother’s voice only twice in my life. Both were damaged cassette tapes from my childhood. In one, she sang to me. In the other, she laughed while I mispronounced the word butterfly.
This voice was older.
Fragile.
But it was hers.
I stood so abruptly that the chair fell backward.
“You’re dead.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“So were we all, in one way or another.”
I struck her.
The sound cracked across the terrace.
