“What?” I ask after ten more seconds of excruciating silence.

“I have to go back out,” Mara says. Her hand is still on the gear stick.

Is she kidding me?

“I just got home, Mom.” The word tastes like ash on my tongue. I, Jamie, am not ready to call her Mom.

“I picked you up a sandwich earlier, it’s in the fridge. I’ll be home around 11:30.”

I execute a trademark Siri dramatic sigh, slip outside, and slam the door. Mara reverses and leaves me in the driveway.

Siri and I exchanged garage codes earlier. This is not the same garage I left out of with Dad. But it’s a similar style. Similar size. I input the numbers (Siri’s birthday) and head into the Maza household, completely unsupervised.

38. A Girl Has Never Been to Her Mom’s House

JAMIE

September 3, Thursday Evening

New Jersey

Through the garage door I find myself in the little hallway to the kitchen that Siri quickly sketched out for me on a piece of notebook paper.

On the wall directly in front of me is a framed 8 × 10 black-and-white photo of my sister in a perfect leap. She’s wearing a black tutu. Her toes are perfectly pointed. She’s at least six feet off the ground. Her back leg is bent up, and she’s arching her head toward it. Her toes are centimeters from her dark bun.

I move toward the kitchen. There’s a white oval-shaped table on the left, and a nice U-shaped cooking area with a small white and gray marble island to my right.

Straight ahead, the kitchen opens into the living room. It’s framed by a cream leather sectional. A sophisticated-looking gray House Stark blanket is draped over the back.

There are pictures on walls. One of Mom and young Siri together outside this house. Mom on stage with a cast of actors at the end of a show. There’s a classic family portrait hanging over the fireplace. A slightly younger, rosy cheeked Mara stands next to a handsome dark-skinned man with circular black-rimmed glasses. That must be George. In front of them sits a young, maybe thirteen-year-old pale-ass Siri, and a cute dark-skinned boy around her age who looks a lot like George: he must be Gill.

I wander into the foyer where I find the front door and a staircase to the second floor. I kick off Siri’s sneakers and head up.

More dance pictures of Siri line the wall going up the steps. The staircase empties in the middle of a narrow hallway with options to go left or right. Siri’s and Gill’s rooms are to the right, Mara’s bedroom is to the left.

Pictures litter this hallway as well. I walk by middle school portraits of Siri and Gill. Siri’s smiling like a total dweeb with braces. I pause, staring at all the frames along the wall. I don’t exist here.