The Art of Mending by Elizabeth Berg

maybe this was some sort of therapy-induced fantasy. And I need to talk to you and Steve to see if you remember any of it as well.”
    “But you mean . . . abuse of you?”
    “Well, yes, basically. But of a very specific kind.”
    “Like . . . sexual?” An image of my father came to me: Best Loved Teacher, year after year, standing before a class of high school freshmen, their faces raised to him.
    “No. No.” She looked over at the roller coaster. “Look, we can’t get into it now. We need time. And also I want to talk to you about . . . I think Bill and I are getting divorced.”
    “What?”
    “Yeah.” She raised her eyebrows, smiled an ironic smile. “Eeeeyup.”
    “Well, Caroline, you . . . I mean, you sort of add this
on
! This is a big deal! They’re both big deals!”
    She stood and pulled her purse higher on her shoulder. “Here come the kids.”
    I stood up beside her. “I hate it when you do this,” I said quietly. I smiled and waved at the little group coming toward us. “I hate it when you start something and then just—”
    “You’re the one who pushed to talk about it. I wanted to wait until later.” She smiled widely at Hannah, now beside her. “How was it?”
    “Awesome! We’re all going
again
! Just one more time!”
    “Hey, Mom!” Anthony said. “Come with us! Please?”
    I started to say no, but then agreed to go. It wasn’t often that my kids asked me to do things with them anymore. I handed my purse to Caroline without asking if she’d mind holding it.
    It took awhile to get through the line, but finally we all climbed on board. Once, when the front car I was riding in with Hannah hesitated at the crest of an incline, when it took that agonizing pause before starting its mad descent, I looked over and spotted Caroline sitting alone on the bench, our purses in her lap. She looked so small. I suddenly remembered our promise to each other never to go on this ride again. And then it occurred to me that I didn’t forget it at all.

Caroline is sitting on her heels in the dirt, wearing her blue dress with white rickrack trim. She is about seven years old. I am standing above her taking the picture: you can see my elongated shadow on the ground beside her, my short braids bowing out from the sides of my head like broken handles. I have caught Caroline burying something, and she will not tell me what it is. I say I am taking her picture because she looks so pretty, but that is not the reason. I am taking it so I will know where to look, later, when I sneak out and dig up what she is trying to hide. She smiles shyly, her hands folded in her lap, squinting in the bright light. I never do return to the site. I am not interested enough to go back and look for anything of hers.

8
    WE WERE FINALLY GETTING CLOSE TO THE END OF THE long line for cheese curds when a tall and massively overweight man wearing dirty jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather vest cut in front of us. He was entirely nonchalant, sliding in as though we were holding a place for him. He was balding but had a long stringy ponytail hanging halfway down his back and many gold hoops on one ear. He reeked of beer. I looked at the kids and started laughing. But Caroline tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said. “You just cut in front of us.”
    The man turned around.
    “Caroline . . .” I said.
    “No! He cut in front of us!”
    The man sneered, then turned away.
    “Excuse me!” Caroline said again, louder, and this time Steve said quietly, “Caroline. Let it go.”
    She looked at Steve for a long moment, and I saw the tension in her jaw from clenching her teeth. Then: “Fine,” she said. “I’ll wait for you outside.” She walked away and Hannah shouted after her, “Aunt Caroline! Do you want us to get you some?”
    She turned back, shook her head no, and disappeared into the crowd.
    “Whoa!” Anthony muttered.
    “She’s just a little nervous today,” I said.
    “She’s always like that!