We slept together curled like curls in a locket in my small bed when my mother was afraid of the dark or of her husband, my father, the third person in our house. Her skin was always hot, I remember, and our tee shirts were damp under the down blankets. One night when I was little—I don’t know how little—not yet eight—I woke from a deep sleep with a sudden all-consuming need to pee and peeled myself from her to walk shivering up the cold hall in the night light’s pallor toward the bathroom where I found my father curled around a toilet full of puke. The intimacy of the echoed gesture—he was the big spoon, his loose fist laid gently against the porcelain—paralyzed me in the doorway. I couldn’t move.