It wasn't until many years later, when she matured to 30, that Rebecca finally remembered the tender scene with her parents that did occur. It was after the police had dropped her off, and she told Nate and Dorothy everything hysterically, then again and again until between calmer breaths, she could explain it all coherently.
"It's awful, honey, just awful," said Nate. "But we love you and you'll make it right. You'll apologize and find a way to live with it. We'll help you."
"We will, we will," seconded Dorothy. "We know you Rebecca. We've known you your whole life and you are a good girl. We'll find our way through this."
They were on the sofa together, the old house and what happened looming above them, a roiling black storm cloud. Her parents arms were around her, their baby, and Rebecca felt, for a time, like things would be o.k., that there would be a way to repair such a horrendous mistake.
And then Nate died in bed the next morning. Dorothy entered the room to find him unyielding, gone. Mother and daughter collapsed, and only through the ministrations of the kindly Wylie brothers and the local doctor, were they able to survive the first few months until a practiced routine of numbing prescription drugs and isolation led them on into the years, nothing forgiven, and much, for a time, forgotten.