“You called me crazy back there.” I looked at her. “That bowl of chili water. Call it ‘medicine’ again. Go on, with Derek in the house.”
June turned on the tap. Water roared into the sink. She kept her back to me. “It was medicine I simmered for you. You were burning with fever. You remember wrong.”
“You’re scared to say it. ‘I never poured that into your mouth.'”
“I didn’t pour anything. I fed you medicine.”
“Then what was in that bowl?”
“Dried chili water. A folk remedy.”
“Have you ever drunk it yourself?”
June’s hand stopped. Then she went back to the sponge. “My body’s strong. I don’t come down with that.”
“Have you ever made it for Derek?”
She turned around, facing me through the rush of water, still smiling. “What are you saying? You think I’d hurt my own son?”
“You won’t answer me.”
June shut off the tap. She wrung out the sponge; drops fell into the sink, one by one. She looked up, voice soft and sweet. “See? Here we go again. Derek—”
