“Because IBM made him sick,” Phoebe said, angry at the quaver in her voice.

Her mother snorted, turning on her heel. “That’s ludicrous,” she said, heading for her bedroom.

Phoebe charged after her. She felt crazed. How could it be ludicrous? That was the story of her father. With every move, every gesture—for years—her mother had confirmed it. “Mom,” she pleaded, “I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

“I can’t believe what you’re saying,” her mother replied. “You’re telling me your father got leukemia, a blood disease, from working as a manager at IBM? What, from chemicals or something? What are you saying?”

“No! You know!” Phoebe was shouting. “Everyone knew, because he—” Explaining felt useless. “Not chemicals, but—”

“What? Radiation?”

“No, no! Because he hated working there.”

“Oh please,” her mother said. “Spare me.”

Phoebe felt as if she’d been struck. Her mother sat on the bed and pulled off her pumps. She set them side by side on the polished floor.