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my own beliefs and rebelled against nearly everything they’d taught me. But every time I came home, some large part of me surrendered itself to the past and relished the sense of being the one who was cared for, if only by a TV tray serving as a bedside table. I was in my mid-fifties, but in my parents’ house I was forever made to feel uniquely safe by the late-night murmurings of the people who were in charge, leaving me free not to be. No matter what anyone said, it seemed to me that not only
can
you go home again, you are helpless not to.
    I dozed lightly, then woke up again. I’d been dreaming of Caroline, or at least thinking of her in the kind of nether land that precedes sleep. She’d been remarkably quiet at dinner and seemed to be trying to catch my eye at odd times. Something was really bothering her.
    I looked at the clock: 1 A.M. I leaned over Pete, gently touched the top of his head, whispered his name. “Are you sleeping?” No response except deep breathing. I got out of bed quietly and headed upstairs to the kitchen. I turned on the stove light and went over to inspect the contents of the refrigerator. Here were the things I rarely bought anymore but always wanted to eat: butter, salami, heavy cream, cheese, mayonnaise. In the cupboards were great varieties of cookies and chips. And in the bread drawer, white bread and a box of cinnamon rolls covered by thick frosting. My father had high blood pressure and cholesterol problems, but my mother disbelieved certain tenets of modern medicine. She had a particular disdain for mental health workers. When I once told her about a friend of mine who was in therapy, she’d said, “Psychiatrists. They’re crazier than anyone.” There’d been no humor in this remark. There’d been venom in it.
    I was sitting at the kitchen table having a salami sandwich when Caroline appeared, ghostlike in this dim light. “Hi,” she whispered. I waved at her, my mouth full. She opened the bread drawer, took out the package of cinnamon rolls, brought it over to the table. “I can’t believe I’m eating again,” she said. “It’s like coming home late at night when we were in high school. Remember how hungry we always were?”
    I nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Remember the time you and Steve and I were eating and he dropped that bowlful of spaghetti all over the place?”
    Caroline took a huge bite of her roll, talked around it. “And he really wanted it, so he ate a bunch of it off the floor.”
    “Right.” I finished my sandwich and went over to the cupboard to take a look around. “Want some Oreos? Oh, boy, they’re double-stuffed.”
    She didn’t answer, and when I looked over at her, I saw her face pressed into her hands. “What’s wrong?” I closed the cupboard and came back to the table. “Caroline? What is it?”
    She smiled sadly. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it now. Not here. It was just . . . a moment.”
    “They’re asleep,” I said. Amazing how quickly we could lapse into the shorthand of sides: us versus them; kids versus parents.
    “We’ll talk when we go out. When Steve’s here too.”
    I leaned back in my chair, picked up a cinnamon roll, and started unwinding it. “I was dreaming about you just before I came up here.”
    “Were you?”
    “Yeah. You were upset.”
    “Well, I
am
upset.”
    “Well, I
know.
”
    She stood, tightened the belt on her robe, and put the box of cinnamon rolls back in the drawer. “Anyway . . . I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we all are.”
    “Yeah. Me too.”
    “So . . . I’ll see you in the morning.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I’m such a wreck. But we’ll talk, okay?”
    She turned to go and I grabbed her hand. “Hey, do you want to go out now? Take a car ride?”
    “I want Steve to be here too.”
    “Want me to wake him up?”
    “No. I know you’d love to, though.”
    “He used to like it when I woke him up late at night.”
    “He’s older now.”
    From upstairs, we heard