Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

groaned.
    “Your Princess Diana phase,” I said. “Short and stiff.”
    “Well, our kids’ll get a kick out of these pictures someday,” Kevin said.
    I shot a glance at Mother, her frozen smile, the unsmiling dark eyes.
    Kevin thumbed toward the front of the scrapbook, past photos in which Michelle and I, and sometimes Mother along with us, grew progressively younger. On the album’s first page was a picture of us when we were about three and six, both gap-toothed, both with our hair in braids. Whenever I looked at that picture I was suffused with a longing that had no name or object, and I felt it now, even though I was seeing the photo upside down from several feet away.
    “Hey, where are your baby pictures?” Kevin said. He grinned at Michelle. “Don’t I get to see you on a bearskin rug?”
    Mother stood so abruptly that all three of us looked at her. “Would anybody like more coffee?” she said. “Kevin, wouldn’t you like another slice of Rosario’s apple cake?”
    “Oh, boy, I shouldn’t,” he said, a hand on his flat stomach.
    Mother smiled. “Just a small piece.”
    He laughed. “You talked me into it, Dr. Goddard.”
    “I’ll help you,” I said, rising to follow her.
    While Mother cut the cake for Kevin, I placed the silver coffee pot, still half-full, on a tray with fresh cups and saucers.
    “Mother,” I said, “where are our baby pictures? I’ll get them out, if Kevin really wants to see them.”
    She turned on me a look so raw, so wounded, that I almost sputtered an apology. I’d violated an invisible boundary, and I’d done it knowingly, intentionally.
    Before I could speak, Mother composed her expression around a tight smile. Her voice was flat and cold. “I’m sure he’s not the least bit interested in our old family pictures, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up again.”
    I felt as if I’d been slapped. A spoon clattered to the tile floor and I realized I had dropped it.
    When I stood after retrieving it, Mother touched my arm and said, “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Let’s talk later. You haven’t seemed yourself this evening. I can see something’s bothering you.”
    Of course she could. She always could.
    When we walked into the living room with the trays, Michelle and Kevin broke off an animated conversation. “We’re going sailing on the river this weekend,” Michelle said. “Kevin’s parents gave him a sailboat when he passed the bar exam.” 
    For a second Mother’s hand hesitated as she held the coffee pot over a cup. “We have the conference on Saturday,” she said, pouring the coffee, not looking up.
    “Oh, we’re going sailing on Sunday.”
    Michelle had forgotten something, but I hadn’t, and I didn’t miss the flash of hurt in Mother’s eyes.
    “That sounds like fun,” she said. She passed a cup to Kevin. A pause. “It’s too bad you’ll have to miss the Picasso exhibit though.”
    Michelle’s mouth rounded. “Oh. Oh no.” Her eyes flitted from Mother to Kevin. “We’ve got tickets,” she told him. “We’ve been planning—”
    “You go with Kevin and enjoy yourself,” Mother said, smiling, her voice pleasantly insistent. “This weather’s perfect for boating.”
    “Oh, Mother,” Michelle said, “I’m sorry. You’ve been looking forward to it so much—I mean, we all have.”
    “Don’t make a fuss over it.” Mother was still smiling. “It’s not important.”
    “Kevin,” Michelle said, “could we do it weekend after next instead?”
    “Don’t be silly,” Mother said, firmly now. “I don’t want to hear another word about it. The two of you will go sailing and have a wonderful time, and Rachel and I will go to the National Gallery to see the Picasso exhibit. Kevin, can I wrap a slice of cake for you to take home?”
    He fumbled for words, then smiled too broadly and thanked her too energetically. His eyes met mine for a second, and he looked like what he was, an outsider caught in an undercurrent that he felt but didn’t quite comprehend.
    Michelle slumped back on the couch, eyes downcast.
    Silent, furious, I demanded of Mother, Why won’t you let us make it right when we disappoint you? I couldn’t believe she deliberately made us feel guilty, I knew that as a psychologist she would scoff at that as the cheapest kind of emotional blackmail, yet her sacrifices and generosity could turn the smallest incident into a major betrayal in our minds. I saw it when it was happening to