At the cattails along the east bank, tall and green now, with brown heads starting to form. At the
cottonwood. At the dock. At her two daughters at the end of it, holding cane poles.
Brittany looked at me.
I got up. I walked down the dock and up the bank to the gate.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“Hi, Jessie.” Her voice was small. She held out the dish. “I made potato salad. I didn’t know if you’d want it.”
I took it.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
I looked at her. My mother. Fifty-five years old. In her old gardening sneakers, standing at a gate in aTrack Pregnancy
cow pasture, holding her breath.
I thought about one picture from a disposable camera. A church skirt at the Taylor County Courthouse. A father who wouldn’t come.
I opened the gate.
Chapter Twelve: Fish Together
She didn’t come out on the dock that first time. She sat on the bank, on the overturned bucket Vern
