Free Bird in Hand by Christina Baker Kline Page A

asked.
    “DWI. I was just barely over the legal limit.” Alison cringed at her own need to say this. “I’m not—technically at fault, apparently.”
    “Uhh,” her father said, as if he’d been hit in the stomach.
    “I really should have said something last night,” her mother said. “You were so rushed and harried on the phone. I just—I had a feeling . Call it mother’s intuition, I don’t know—I could tell something was going to happen. I was pacing around all night. Wasn’t I, Ed? Don’t you remember telling me to relax and sit down?”
    “I always tell you that,” Alison’s father said.
    “No, but this was different. I feel sick about it. I should have—could have—”
    “Mom, don’t,” Alison said. It was just like her mother to insist that her witchy powers might have saved the day.
    “Well, okay, but I regret not saying something. I knew you were in no state to be driving into New York by yourself. You seemed absolutely overwhelmed.”
    Did I? Alison wondered, unable, as usual, to connect her mother’s interpretation of her mental state with how she’d felt. She had certainly been harried when her mother called the night before, but only because she was trying to get out the door at the last minute. Or was her mother right? Was it something more?
    “Driving into the city by yourself on a rainy night—and to a party. You don’t even like to drive,” her mother fretted.
    “June, take it easy,” Alison’s father said. “It was a party for Claire’s book. Alison had to go.”
    “Well. Don’t even get me started on that book. It is a slap in the face to poor Lucinda, whether or not she realizes it. That girl should be ashamed of herself.”
    “June,” Alison’s father implored.
    Alison’s mother went on, ignoring him. Here it was, in a nutshell: their dynamic. “I have never, ever trusted Claire Ellis—there was always something devious about her. Why you’ve stayed friends with her, I’ll never understand. Haven’t I been saying that, Edward, for years?”
    She had, in fact, been saying it for years. Perhaps in part because they were so much alike, June and Claire had never liked each other. Claire thought that Alison’s mother was a self-absorbed drama queen; her mother thought that Claire was up to no good. Of course, they were both right. What Alison resisted in her mother—the arrogance of her opinions, the calculated impulsiveness, the stubborn refusal to abide by others’ conventions, her narcissistic charm—she had always admired in Claire, in whom these traits were manifested as sly subversion.
    “Alison,” her father broke in. His voice was grave. “What can we do?”
    “There’s nothing you can do,” she said numbly.
    “How is Charlie handling all this?” her mother asked.
    “Fine. I mean, he’s been … helpful. He took the kids out for the morning.”
    “How are Annie and Noah?”
    “Why are you crying, Mommy?” Annie had wanted to know, standing next to the bed, her voice already, first thing in the morning, a needling, needy whine. Alison knew that her daughter’s concern was all about her own fear and discomfort, and she’d had to fight the urge to turn away. Instead, she pulled her close, under the covers. (Sometimes, Alison was aware, she expressed the strongest affection for her children when she was least sure of her own response.) Annie had stiffened against Alison’s embrace, pulling away to peer in her face. “Your eyes are all puffy, Mommy,” she’d said, her face scrunched in alarm.
    “They know I was in an accident,” Alison said now. “Not the rest.”
    “How are you going to tell them?”
    “She doesn’t have to tell them,” her father said, at the same time that Alison said, “I don’t know.”
    “Oh, Alison.” Her mother sighed. “We should fly up there. You’re in no shape to handle the kids right now. And as long as I’m being honest here I should tell you that I don’t like that babysitter of