“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
“Mom,” Zoe said. “Can I do something?”
“What?”
“Can I volunteer?” she said. “At Special Olympics? Next year? When I’m eleven?”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
She looked out the window at the lake.
“Because I want to learn everybody’s names,” she said.
I had to pull over.
On London Road. Right across from the Super One.
I sat in the car with my hands on the steering wheel and cried.
Zoe didn’t say anything. She just held my hand.
When I could see again, I looked across the street.
At the Super One. At the doors. At the checkout lanes through the big front windows.
At the place where my sister stood at nineteen with broken eggs at her feet saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
While I stood by the magazine rack and pretended I didn’t know her.
