My mother folded her arms.
“You are making this worse.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“You did.”
I helped Maia out from under the table.
She was shaking so badly that I had to hold her around the waist.
“Hospital,” I said.
My mother stepped forward.
“She doesn’t need a hospital.”
I turned toward her.
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
“Don’t come near my wife.”
For the first time, my mother looked genuinely shocked.
I helped Maia into the hallway.
She was still holding her stomach.
“The baby?”
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“From my mouth.”
I looked at the blood again.
Then I went back into the dining room.
My mother frowned.
“What are you doing?”
I took out my phone.
And I started taking pictures.
The table.
Every plate.
Every glass.
The fish.
The bones.
The chair behind Maia’s seat.
Her overturned water glass.
Her phone.
The floor.
My mother’s plate.
Dermot standing beside the door.
Everything.
My mother laughed bitterly.
“Are you seriously photographing dinner?”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“No.”
I took another photograph.
“I’m making sure I remember what I saw.”
Nobody said anything after that.
I helped Maia into the car.
