Mara approaches the bed timidly, like I’m a wild animal. She puts her hand down first and then sits. She doesn’t speak.

Why is it so hard for her to say anything? Why does she hold so much power over my mental state? Why does her every awkward statement, every rigid movement feel like a splinter pressing into my skin?

I need this confrontation to be over. “Mom, was Jamie really a figment of my imagination?”

I stare into her gold eyes. Please just acknowledge the truth. For a moment, a deep sadness shines through her features.

Then Mara looks down at her hands. “Siri” she says softly, “why are we still having this conversation? Of course she was.”

“Please, Mom,” I sob.

She reaches out and rubs my back. “Siri, honey, stop dwelling on her. I am so, so sorry you’re hurting. We have to be strong and move forward instead of looking back. You are going to get past all this sorrow. You are strong.”

“You’re saying Jamie for sure was not real,” I repeat as robotically as I can manage.

“She was not real,” Mara says.

I catch her eyes again, my face a mess of anguish and bodily fluid. “You never saw her.”

She doubles down. “No, Siri.”

Fresh hot tears sear down my cheeks.

“It’s going to be okay.” Mara shifts closer, pulling me into her arms.

This is the last place I want to be. But I let her do it anyway. I don’t know why. I don’t have the energy to do anything else.

74. A Girl Is a Hot Mess

JAMIE

September 7, Monday Evening

New Jersey

When Mara finally leaves an hour later, I reach over for the iPhone. Someone called during my sob fest.

Dawn.

I jolt upright and tap the video camera button next to her number.

The phone plays the little doo-doo-doo-doo-doo jingle that I’ve heard so many times in shows and movies. A lingering sob falls out of me as Dawn’s face pixelates onto the screen.

“Jamie?!” Dawn looks fabulous as usual, with her hair in an Ariana Grande–esque ponytail with a hot pink scrunchie and black sweater.

I can see my Siri self in the tiny corner screen. I look like I just rolled out of a ditch.

“Lady Federov, whateth the helleth happened?” Her voice is heavy with concern.

“Can you see me, me or do you see Siri?” I gurgle.

“I see you, Jame. That shit doesn’t work on me.”