My father’s voice came through the speakerphone while I stood frozen beside the kitchen counter. “Rosalind,” he said calmly, “the bacon’s good. Your sister made it.” Nobody answered immediately. I could hear only the clicking of Corbin’s turn signal on the other end. Then Corbin whispered that it was not funny.
My father replied that it wasn’t. He had been sitting in my kitchen because of something my sister had completely misunderstood. Three days earlier, he had undergone a cardiac catheterization at a medical center four states away. I had found the cardiologist, flown him there, taken him to every appointment, and brought him home afterward. Rosalind had known about every step.
