The Undoing
21
When I step off the Greyhound bus in Katona, Minnesota, it is nine-forty a.m., twenty minutes before my father is due to deliver a sermon at the Lutheran church. I walk to the parsonage slowly and deliberately, timing my steps to reach it just as my watch shows ten o’clock.
I enter my family’s home using the key that has never left my keychain, and immediately climb the stairs to my bedroom. Upon opening the door, I am shocked to see that all my things have been removed. In place of my single bed with its brown and green bedspread, there sits a double bed with a flowered coverlet and decorative pillows. The wooden bookshelves are filled with knickknacks instead of books. And I soon discover that my closet and bureau drawers have been emptied of whatever clothing I left be
