I grabbed a handful of spaghetti and threw it at the wall.
Mother gasped. Grandmother ducked. Jasmine edged toward the door. I grabbed another handful and threw it the other direction. “There!” I shouted. “Is this what you want?”
I took a deep breath, bracing myself, and rang the doorbell. My parents’ house was the big white one on the dead-end road, not too far from downtown but enough so you didn’t hear the traffic or the commotion from the bars on Friday and Saturday evenings. It was old, drafty, and crooked, and still had the original shutters and pumpkin-pine floors. My brother called it a never-ending project and I agreed. Mother called it old-world charm.
She swung open the heavy antique door and exclaimed, “Veronica!” The door banged against her foot but she barely flinched even though she was wearing those thin old, dirty moccasins, the ones she always wore when her feet ached. Her hair, usually smooth all over, today was rough in places and stuck up and out like stray broom straws, like she had …