Chapter 7R
ita answers the door in faded jeans, work boots, and an oversized bright orange sweater with a prominent hole in the armpit. She shrieks and throws herself at Connie, grabbing as much as she can of the children with open arms.
“What on earth? Ooh, Anna, aren’t you big? Where’s my godchild? Ceci, give me a hug. What gives? Come in.”
They straggle into the kitchen where the girls collapse at the table, rest their heads on their coat sleeves.
“Oh, Reet, your hair . . . this place . . . ” Connie looks around bleary-eyed. She feels as if she’s been struggling to walk after an amputation: everything’s wobbly and too difficult. Now that she’s here, the import of what she’s done punctures her bravado. The day rolls up and flattens her.
“Connie, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve left Vince,” sh
