“You already have four.”
“There’s five of us.”
Reluctantly, Marigold took a sample. The salesman had barely blinked when Helen had taken a batch, but he gave Marigold a look and she shrank under the attention.
Thank God for Rosie, who came squealing, “Dad needs help at the register!”
Philip had gotten out of the line. “I’m forty dollars short,” he said in Chinese. “Do you have your purse?”
Helen gave Rosie the Dixie cups and looked discreetly into her purse. “I have twelve.”
“What happened to the money I gave you last week?”
“I used it to buy groceries—you know, so we can eat.” Helen snapped her purse shut. “Is that why old Mr. Choi came this morning? Did you owe him—”
“I didn’towehim anything,” Philip interrupted. “I lent him a few dollars, that’s it.”
“A few dollars.”
“He needed to fix his car so he can take his mother to the doctor. She doesn’t walk so well anymore.”
“He always says that. How many years have you been friends, and how many times has he paid us back? The girls have been looking forward to a new TV for months, and now—”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Peony, dear sweet Peony, dared to step into the war zone. “We can get the TV another time.”
Helen fixed her with the reproachful glare she’d given Philip. “They won’t have a sale like this again. That’s the last set they have. Someone else is going to buy it the moment we put it back.”
“What do you expect me to do,” Philip said, “go outside and beg for twenty-eight dollars?”
“Don’t you raise your voice at me,” Helen snapped.
“I didn’t raise my voice.”
“Yes you did. People are looking at us.”
Truthfully, they were both yelling, and the other customers werestaring.Rosie looked like she was about to cry. She hated when their parents fought.
With her parents quarreling, no one paid attention to Marigold. When she breathed in, her nose made a wheezy whistling sound.
“Let’s just go home,” her mother said abruptly. She took two cups from Rosie, drinking the soup before she tossed them into the trash can by the exit.
The sun had set while they’d been in the store, and the night air was cold. It shivered down Marigold’s lungs, making her cough.
Helen dropped her coat over Marigold’s shoulders. “Next time bring a jacket. I don’t know what you were thinking, wearing short sleeves out tonight.”
Something happened when her mother grabbed her hand. Her fingers went through Marigold’s completely, as if she were a gust of air.
Marigold gasped.
The briefest flicker of panic played on Helen’s face, which Marigold would later tell herself was only a trick of the light, then Helen took her wrist. Her grip was so firm it almost hurt.
Without a word, Helen picked up her pace, dragging Marigold with her. Soon they were twenty steps ahead of Philip and her sisters. Marigold was accustomed to Helen’s moods, but today’s seemed darker than usual.
“Mom,” Marigold said. The world was starting to sway and every breath burned. She couldn’t keep up. “Can you slow down?”
No answer. Helen’s eyes had turned flat. She wore a faraway look that Marigold had never seen before, as if she weren’t in the same world as everyone else.
Marigold focused on her feet, counting the triangular beams of light cutting down from the lamp poles. Counting usually helped.
