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until we parked the car in Columbia, Amelia was ragging on her mother nonstop. I mean, you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I heard. She really hates her mother’s guts.”
    “Ah, come on now. Nobody hates their mother’s guts. And Frances Mae can’t help herself. She’s sick, Eric. Amelia is old enough to understand that.”
    “Yeah, well, both of us got that but we had a hard time understanding what she was doing driving drunk with Chloe.”
    “I’ll give you that one.” I pulled a half-full bottle of wine from the refrigerator, twisted out the cork, and poured myself a glass.
    “We went in the house when we got to Walterboro, right? And Amelia basically ripped Belle and Linnie a new one for letting Chloe get in the car with Aunt Fan being all wasted.”
    “Yeah, but here’s the thing. Those girls shouldn’t have to police their mother. Why didn’t one of them drive Chloe over?”
    “They didn’t want to have to see Rusty and they probably didn’t realize how in the bag old Fan was.”
    “Maybe. Anyway, Frances Mae is a lucky woman that nothing worse happened, but this whole business of vilifying Rusty with every second breath is just stupid.”
    “I think Amelia knows that. Sort of. But it’s hard for her to take the other side. I mean, her mom and sisters run a pretty wicked campaign against Rusty.”
    “Listen to me, Eric: I think that at this point I am way more concerned about the girls’ safety than I am about Frances Mae’s ridiculous pride. And y’all should be, too.”
    “You’ve never really liked her, have you?”
    “Me not like Frances Mae?”
    “Yeah. I mean, like the world doesn’t know it.”
    “Oh, Eric, it’s so complicated.”
    I became uncomfortable whenever anyone brought up my personal feelings about Frances Mae. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her because she was a low-class redneck slut from nowhere. I didn’t like her because she was greedy, jealous, small-minded, petty, and mean-spirited. But try explaining that to your nineteen-year-old son who still lives in a world of thought where things were either black or white. He thought families should stick together. Period. No exceptions. That opinion fueled his rage against his father and his half brother, although he rarely showed those feelings. Besides, Frances Mae was not and would never be blood. I didn’t have to love her.
    “I know it’s complicated.”
    “Eric. Look, son. This isn’t about me being critical of Frances Mae.”
    “Whatever. Anyway, Amelia is just totally frustrated with her mother. She’s worried about her, about what she might do next. That wreck scared the living hell out of her. But she’s stuck in Columbia, you know?”
    “I know. The wreck scared me, too. What about Belle and Linnie? What did they have to say?”
    “Well, Belle is just like counting the days until she gets out of high school and leaves Walterboro in the rearview mirror. She feels bad about leaving Chloe behind but not bad enough to stick around. She ain’t ever coming back. And Linnie? Linnie cares about Linnie. That one’s a short story. The end.”
    “So you don’t think that either one of those girls is particularly interested in running interference for Chloe, like to take over driving her where she needs to go and so forth?”
    “Pretty much, and that makes Amelia even more frustrated.”
    “I’m sure it does. Poor child.”
    “Which one?”
    “All of them.”
    “Yeah. But what can you do?”
    “Well, I sure can’t stand around and watch Frances Mae drink herself to death and maybe maim, disfigure, or, God forbid, and that’s a prayer, kill her daughters in the process.”
    “Yeah, but you, me . . . we’re not in charge of Aunt Fan. No one is.”
    “Well, there’s Trip. Technically.”
    “Right. I keep forgetting they’re not divorced. But what can he do?”
    “I think he’s considering his options as we speak.”
    “Like what? Rehab again?”
    “Yeah, probably . . .” My voice