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me
across the foyer.
    I trail after her into the living room and find my father
sitting on the antique sofa, reading over the day ’ s paper,
a replenished cocktail at his side. My body goes stock still as my mother
settles down across from him, rifling through her day planner. Looking at the
two of them now, you ’ d think this was just an ordinary
night in the Benson Home. They sit in silence, occupied with their own tasks,
as if their daughter ’ s memorial service hadn ’ t
just concluded an hour ago. As if their only remaining child who they haven ’ t seen in years isn ’ t standing before them
now, utterly at a loss.
    “Oh! You ’ re still here, ”
my father remarks, glancing up at me over his reading glasses.
    “Yes, Dad,” I reply, acidic anger roiling in my core, “I ’ m still here. ”
    “I thought you ’ d gone back to the commune already,” he drawls, taking a catty swipe at my new
town.
    “Not just yet,” I shoot back, crossing my arms tightly
across my chest, “I had to pocket some of your silverware first. Gotta make
rent somehow, am I right?”
    My parents look up at me sharply. Of course, the mere
mention of their valuables being stolen gets their attention.
    ‘“Is that your ironic, roundabout way of asking for money?”
my mother asks primly. “We ’ d prefer you just come out with
it and—”
    “I ’ m not asking you for money,” I cut
her off. “I haven ’ t once asked you for money. Not from the
moment I left this place. It ’ s something I ’ ve
always been proud of, you know that.”
    “We ’ re well aware that your pride
trumps your common sense,” my father sighs.
    “If you don ’ t need money, then what is
it you want?” my mother asks testily.
    “What I want, Mother,” I reply, my words gushing out on a
swell of white hot ire, “Is to know what the hell you were thinking, inviting
Daryl Hellman to Avery ’s memorial service . ”
I can almost hear the air being sucked out of the room as my parents stare at
me, unmoving. “You know that what he did fucked Avery up for the rest of
her—”
    “We are not having this conversation again,” my father says,
his voice hard.
    “No, you ’ re right,” I shoot back, “We
can ’ t have this conversation ‘again ’ because
we ’ ve never had in the first place! You completely
dismissed us every time we tried to tell you what he ’ d
done. You told us we were lying, that we just wanted attention. You were more
concerned with keeping up appearances at the country club than standing up to
your daughters ’ abuser. And even now that Avery is gone,
you let that monster stroll into her memorial service as if nothing—”
    “I will not be attacked in my own home!” my father roars,
rising to his feet.
    “But it was OK for your daughters to be?” I cry out, my
hands balled into angry fists. “That ’s quite enough, ” my
mother says, placing herself between me and my father. “Calista, you cannot
speak to your parents that way.”
    “That ’ s the only thing I have to say to
you,” I tell her, “So if you won ’ t
hear it, then I guess that means we ’re done. ”
    “Yes. I think we are indeed done for the evening,” my father
huffs.
    “No, Dad,” I say, swallowing the hard knot that ’ s formed in my throat, “We ’ re not done for
the evening. We ’ re done for good. You won ’ t
be hearing from me again.”
    “Oh please,” my mother scoffs, “Don ’ t be
so dramatic. We ’ ve already had one actress in the family. We certainly don ’ t need another.”
    “This isn ’ t an act,” I tell her,
dragging shallow breaths into my lungs. “This is me, finally doing the right
thing. What I should have done a long time ago. Avery and I needed you to stand
by us, all those years ago. We needed you to protect us. Love us. And you
just...didn ’ t. You failed at loving us.”
    “ Calista, for god ’ s
sake,” my father murmurs, the very mention of the word “love” making