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"Who is my father?"
"I don't know," she replied quickly, almost too
quickly. She turned to me.
"So now you know all this. Are you going to be
better for it? What are you going to do with the
knowledge, Cathy?"
"I don't know. It will take time to digest it," I
said, swallowing hard.
"You want my advice? Bury it. That's what I
did." "Did you? Did you really ever bury it or did you
let it bury you?"
She studied me and then her eyes narrowed. "So, what are you going to do now? Are you
going to hate me more for keeping the truth from
you?"
"I don't hate you," I said.
"Are you still going to call me Mother?" "I don't know how I can start doing otherwise,"
I said.
She nodded. Then she turned and looked out
the window.
"I'm tired, Cathy," she said. "Let's let each other
rest," she pleaded.
"Okay," I said and left her rocking, staring into
the night, staring back through her own troubled
memories.
Her revelations didn't make me feel any better.
In fact, they made me feel even more alone, even
more like someone just drifting. What did I have to
look forward to now? I wondered.
I thought about the other girls. They were like
me that way, too. They were drifting.
