My mother insisted on leaving string rehearsal and coming to the hospital, but wouldn?t visit my father while Claire was in the room.

She loitered at the nurse?s station. ?What?s his blood pressure? Did you find blockage?? She acted like she was still the wife.

?What are you doing?? I said.

?None of your business.?

I pulled her into the empty stairwell. ?You had your chance. Turn?s over.?

She dug in her purse for a cigarette. ?That makes your day, doesn?t it, dear??

It did. Daughters could fuck other men and not be demoted. Daughters could outlast mothers who, thirty years ago, had fucked their father?s best friend.

?You were a newlywed,? I said.

She struck a safety match, lit the end, took a drag.

My mother could disappear right in front of my eyes.

?I have questions.? I wanted details, freshly cut, so I could lie in their bed, taste her lipstick, feel Ralph?s hands. I wanted to crack her open and walk around in there, know everything she wouldn?t tell.

She tapped her ash over the railing. ?I?m your mother, not your friend.?

Mothers packed your lunchbox, drove you to flute practice, yes. Other mothers sat on your bed, patted your back while you cried. You?d caught your boyfriend glued to Mollie Sprung. These mothers assured their daughters there was more love, even sweeter.

?How did you feel when Ralph decided to stay with his wife?? I said.

She took a drag off her cigarette, inhaled deeply. ?Alone.? She buttoned her sweater with one hand. ?The air-conditioning?s too low,? she said.

She?d sat at the kitchen table and waited for my father to come home. He didn?t yet know about the affair, and his smile, the chatter about his day, would feel something like sympathy.

?You asked Ralph to go away with you,? I said. ?Were you going to take me??

She twisted the end of her silk scarf, stared down the staircase. Ralph had promised her a new family, a child of their own. But what had changed? He?d left a note in her violin case that she read only once.

?Of course,? she said, but a beat had been missed.

?My vote would?ve been to stay with Dad.?

?I thought about that,? she said.

A door banged open and a nurse ran up the stairs, stopped and pointed at the NO SMOKING sign.

?I can read,? my mother told her. The woman?s rubber soles squeaked on the landing above us.

?Dad found the note,? I said. ?You should?ve pitched it.?

But she didn?t throw things away, and Liddie didn?t let things go. Mother and daughter worried the old stuff, the mistakes and indecisions that couldn?t be changed.

?You made playing the flute miserable,? I said. ?I didn?t want to be a virtuoso like you; I just liked the way I sounded.?

?You were a dilettante.? She dropped the finished cigarette in her Coke can, shook it until the hissing stopped.

?I was twelve,? I said.

?What do you want, Liddie?? my mother said.

?I have a list,? I said.

She unwrapped a breath mint, handed it to me, but I wanted to play for her.

?Shouldn?t we be thinking about your father?? she said.

I had forgotten about my father. My old silver flute was in my purse, in three pieces, and I screwed it together.

?Listen,? I said. ?Just listen.?

I held the cold mouthpiece to my lips and blew. Faure sounded good in the staircase. Music bounced off the terracotta, bigger than it should?ve been, and my mother sat down and leaned her against the railing.

?Your vibrato?s still lovely,? she said. ?Why did you stop??