A rare night out, my oldest brother babysitting the rest of us. My mother emerged from their bedroom in a see-through blouse, her plain white bra clearly visible. What was she thinking? To wake up my father's numb shuffle, I guess. What was she thinking? My father looked up, jumped spilled his coffee. I was thirteen and couldin't look. My father didn't yell-- he paced and shook his head he opened his mouth he closed his eyes he made fists. He sent us to our rooms. What were you thinking? He asked her. I can pile up the facts: My father was never home. They were both forty. She cried. They went nowhere. We never saw the blouse again. It was rose colored. My mother had one of her dizzy spells--she lay in bed all weekend. My father made us pancakes the next morning, and they weren't bad. He didn't say much. Kept looking at his watch. Your mother's sick, he said and we knew. Through the cracked door I saw him sitting on the edge of their bed. I couldn't see her. Nobody said a thing. Something might have happened, but the next day it was back to work, and overtime.