Remember the first time we went to Arkansas to see Ruby? Yeah, it was 1987. I was so scared. Did you know that? I was afraid she wouldn’t like me, that somehow she’d blame me for the Mallorys giving her away. Maybe she’d even blame me for how the wicked witch of the south–Daddy Platt’s sister–abused her. But mostly I was afraid because she was no longer a 22-month-old baby who looked up to me. She had her own life now, one that included me only on a peripheral level. Too many years had passed, and we would never share the banter and the memories that normal sisters take for granted. And then when we pulled up in front of her little rock house and I saw her thin silhouette framed in the doorway, I knew why I was really afraid.
I don’t want to talk about it.