The Lesson
“HOLD YOUR BREATH, or the fumes will choke you.” My mother held a lowball glass to her chest, vodka glinting in the morning light, and said, “Then you swallow.” She raised her chin, peered from under thick glasses, and tossed a shot down her gullet.
She said we should take a break from chores. We were living in Rio Rancho, New Mexico, a suburb of Albuquerque. My stepfather, Gary, was not home.
She breathed through her nose and hissed out: “Then you take a breath.”
She poured another shot over ice and said,
