Chapter 2

Hazel doesn't answer.

She tucks her chin lower. Her knuckles go white around the fork.

Her thoughts come with teeth now.

"Has the nerve to ask. Peanuts, and she wants a feast."

Heat shoots up my neck.

Ten thousand dollars is peanuts?

I'm opening my mouth to go off — and here comes Danny, strolling back from the kitchen with two bottles of wine, grinning like a used-car salesman. He plunks the bottles down and slides sideways in front of Hazel like a shield.

"Ma, relax. Breathe."

"I sent her the dinner money. Every dime."

"Hazel started this new skincare program. Trainer's strict — no red meat, no sauces, no alcohol. That's why she did it light. She wanted it clean for your health."

Skincare program. Of course. God knows what that costs.

I stare at Hazel. Her hair falls forward. Her neck is dull and gray in the lamplight. Doesn't look like any skincare program is working.

Danny bends down and whispers in her ear. Low. But not low enough.

"Don't run your mouth. You know how Ma is about appearances."

Every word walks right into my ear.

Before I can speak, Hazel's thoughts kick back in.

"Here we go again."

"Because she cares about appearances, I'm not allowed to say the word 'money' in this house."

"If I'm too trashy for her perfect Russo table, don't make me the daughter-in-law."

"If I don't do skincare, don't take her stupid classes — suddenly I'm not good enough for the great Donna?"

"Then write the damn check, lady."

My chest tightens.

But it's Sunday Dinner. I'm not blowing the roof off at the table.

Frank comes out of the bathroom. Sees the sea of cabbage. His face goes dark too.

Danny snaps his fingers at Hazel. "Pour your dad and ma a drink. Come on. It's a holiday. Don't kill the mood."

She drags herself up. Walks over. Pours. Won't lift her eyes.

Danny nudges her. "Hazel. Say hi to Ma."

She finally picks her head up. Dead tired. Voice flat and hoarse.

"Danny's dad. Danny's mom."

I almost think I misheard her.

The woman I write a thirty-grand check for every month — on Sunday Family Dinner — won't call me Ma.

Frank's face turns to stone. He's holding the wine, not sure whether to drink or not.

I don't give him the choice.

I jerk my hand and dump the whole glass on the floor.

Danny jumps. "Ma, what are you —"

"Hand."

"What?" Both of them stare.

I lock eyes with Hazel. "I said give me your hand. Now."

Hazel slides her hand up from under the table. Palm up on the wood.

Three years of bills. Best manicurist in Manhattan. French imported hand cream.

This hand? Nails bitten down to nothing. Little rips of skin on every fingertip.

And a red welt across the base of her thumb. Deep. Like a rope ground into her for hours.

I had that same mark. Forty years ago. From hauling pasta crates off the food cart.

I don't move my eyes. "What is that."

Her fingers curl into a fist. Hiding it.

Danny jumps in fast. "Ma, that's from yoga. Weight bars. Resistance bands. Nothing. Don't read into it."

Hazel's fist clenches harder in her lap.

"Sorting UPS packages till three in the morning. He calls that weight bars."

"Ringing up the diner till my legs give out. He calls that body sculpting."

"I split a fifty-dollar grocery run into two weeks of meals. He tells everyone he gave me ten grand."

"Is this family's reputation really that goddamn important?"

UPS? Diner?

Ice goes down my spine.

On one side — my son. My blood. The boy I raised.

On the other side — the daughter-in-law who won't even call me Ma.

Who's lying to me?

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