“I have three fractured ribs,” I said.
“I know,” he said, his voice softening into that low, placating tone he used whenever his mother started to raise her voice at dinner. “And I am so sorry. But we can handle this ourselves.”
Vera came out of the kitchen, her fingers curled around the blue paper coffee cup she had carried home from the school office. She stood near the doorway, her shoulder resting against the frame.
“She has a right to keep the records, Graham,” Vera said.
Graham did not look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on my face, his knuckles turning slightly white where his hands were pressed together.
“You are making this about something it is not,” Graham said to me, his voice shaking slightly.
“She pushed me down the stairs, Graham,” I said. “Three of my ribs are cracked.”
“It was an accident,” he said. “She was trying to keep everyone calm.”
“By pushing me?” I asked.
“You were shouting at her,” Graham said, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself. “You were bringing up things from three years ago that didn’t matter anymore.”
I felt a cold spot open in my chest, a small space where my hope had been sitting.
“I was asking her about the utility bills she forgot to pay,” I said.
“She is sixty-three, Nora,” Graham said. “She gets confused.”
“She wasn’t confused when she put her hands on my back,” I said.
Vera took a slow sip from her paper cup, her eyes moving between the two of us.
“She isn’t the one who did the pushing, Graham,” Vera said.
Graham turned his head slowly toward her, his jaw tight.
“This is between my wife and me, Vera,” he said.
“Not in my house, it isn’t,” Vera said, her voice even and perfectly calm.
Graham turned back to me, his shoulders slumping.
“Uncle Paul is furious,” Graham said. “He says the whole family is going to be dragged into this if you don’t drop it.”
I adjusted my watch strap, the small leather loop catching on my sleeve.
“How can I drop it?” I asked. “The hospital already sent the report.”
“They only follow up if you press charges,” Graham said, stepping closer to my chair. “If you tell them it was a slip, they close the file.”
“You want me to lie to the sheriff’s deputy,” I said.
“I want my family to survive this,” Graham said.
He sat down on the very edge of the sofa, his knees nearly touching mine. He reached out, his hand stopping inches from my knee before he pulled it back.
“If you just delete the texts from Sunday night,” he said, “we can tell everyone it was a bad connection. We can say the phones glitched.”
“I am not deleting them,” I said.
“Uncle Paul is already talking about calling his lawyer,” Graham said. “He wants to know what we are going to do.”
“I am going to keep them,” I said.
“You don’t understand what this means,” Graham said, his voice dropping to a low, desperate hiss. “If this goes to the prosecutor, she could face charges.”
The word hovered in the warm air of the room, heavy and real.
“She should have thought of that before she pushed me,” I said.
“She is my mother, Nora,” Graham said. “I can’t just let her go to jail.”
“And I am your wife,” I said.
He did not answer. He pressed his palms together, his fingers pointing straight up toward his chin.
“You are going to ruin everything because of one bad dinner,” he said.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the cushion, the dull ache in my ribs spreading across my chest.
“You are making this about something it is not,” I said, repeating his words back to him in a flat whisper.
“I am trying to protect us,” Graham said. “But you won’t let me.”
He stood there for a long moment, his shadow falling over my lap.
He left the yellow folder on the table and walked out without looking back.
The next morning at ten o’clock, the floral wallpaper in Vera’s spare room seemed too bright for the grey Michigan sky outside.
My ribs caught as I tried to sit up on the edge of the mattress, a sharp pinch that made me hold my side.
Vera came in through the door, holding her paper coffee cup in her left hand.
She set the cup on the small bedside table and walked over to help me pull the black elastic straps of my rib brace tight.
“Lean forward just a little,” Vera said, her fingers working the Velcro at my side.
“Is it supposed to feel like a corset?” I asked, my voice thin.
“It is supposed to keep you from moving the wrong way,” Vera said.
“My aunt had to wear one of these after she fell off her back porch,” she added.
She pulled the top strap tight, and I felt the support grip my chest.
“Did she fall?” I asked.
“Her husband pushed her,” Vera said, her voice completely flat.
“She spent three days in the county hospital with a broken collarbone,” she said.
She reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a small white business card with a blue logo.
“She went to the legal aid clinic in town,” Vera said.
“They helped her get her name off the house deed before he could sell it,” she said.
I looked at the blue logo on the card, which had the words Oak Creek Legal Assistance printed in block letters.
“Graham wants me to come home on Friday,” I said, adjusting my watch strap.
“Do you want to go home on Friday?” Vera asked.
“I am staying here,” I said, putting the card into my pocket.
“I cannot go back to that house right now,” I said.
Vera picked up her coffee cup and took a small sip, her face calm.
“I will drive you to their office,” she said.
“They have an open clinic at two o’clock,” she said.
“I do not have the money for a private lawyer,” I said.
“They do not charge for the first consultation,” Vera said.
“And you need someone who knows the local judges,” she said.
I looked at the small pile of my clean clothes Vera had stacked on the dresser.
“Does Graham know you are taking me?” I asked.
“Graham does not need to know everything we do,” Vera said.
We took the stairs slowly, my left hand gripping the black iron railing while Vera carried my small canvas bag.
The drive to the legal aid office was quiet, the windshield wipers on Vera’s car ticking against the glass.
