“What’s wrong, Cat?” I asked. “He’s not here.” I blinked, tried to ignore the sharp pang of disappointment. I said sarcastically, “Well, there’s a shock.” Cat was talking about our father, Marty Boxer, who left home when we were kids and failed to show when my mom was dying. I’d seen him only twice in the past ten years and hadn’t missed him, but after he’d told Cat he’d come to my
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“He said he would be here. He promised,” Cat said. I’m six years older than my sister and a century more jaded. I should
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“Forget it,” I said. “He can’t hurt us. He’s nobody to us.” Claire, my best bosom buddy, sat up in bed, swung her legs over, and put her bare feet on the floor. She’s a large black woman and funny—acidly so. If she weren’t a pathologist, she could do stand-up comedy. “I’ll give you away, Lindsay,” she said. “But I want you back.” Cindy and I cracked up, and Yuki piped up, “I know who can stand in for Marty, that jerk.” She stepped into her pink satin dress, pulled it up over her tiny little bones, and zipped it herself. She said, “Be right back.” Getting things...
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