My sister called at the height of the evasive interviews. “You’re covering for them,” she said. “I’m not lying,” I replied. “No. You’re omitting. It’s dishonest.” The low points between us flickered back to me. I remembered the hard years, after I’d told her to shut up about her own allegation: walking into her room after she came back from the hospital; seeing her pull a long sleeve over the ladder of blood-red em-dashes on her forearm; saying I was sorry, and that I wished I could have done more.
