At eleven, Jenna woke up crying. Nola gathered her books off the section of the dining table she was allowed to use, turned off the lights, and rushed into their bedroom. She sat on Jenna’s bed and comforted her in hushed tones so that Miss Helga wouldn’t wake up and growl about how difficult it was to have children around.

“Tell me again about Mommy and Daddy,” Jenna begged.

“Mommy was a singer and Daddy was a musician. A lead guitarist, which is very special.” Nola tucked Jenna back under the covers.

“Do I look like Mommy?” Jenna asked.

“Sure. You have her hair and her eyes.”

“Did she love me?”

“You were her precious little baby.” Nola pointed into the darkened corner. “She used to sit in this beanbag and hold you and sing you songs.”

The worst part of inventing lies was that the real memories were crumbling fast. Sometimes, when Nola squinted, the lights shone with starlike spikes like the tiny mirrors on the Indian pillows, and Nola would think of the long, lazy days with her mother, and cry. But hard as she tried, her mother’s face showed as if through holes in a slice of Swiss cheese. Nola could see the hair with the headband, or the dreamy green eyes, but the details always floated among blank spaces.

“Show me the photos again.”

“You saw them yesterday, and the day before and the day before." Nola sighed, turned on the bedside lamp, and brought over from her nightstand the two framed photographs. One was of the four of them, on Jenna's first birthday, before her accident. They had been a normal family, all living together. “You see the big bow Mommy made for you?”

Nola propped up Dad’s black-and-white publicity photo. It was like cheating because in her mind’s eye she couldn’t see his face. She remembered his smell, ripe and mixed with lemon-scented aftershave. She remembered the feel of his chest hair when she furrowed her finger to check how deep it would go. And she remembered the sound of his voice when they jammed together. Jenna would never know any of it; Dad had never recorded these sessions, which was another monumental loss. Nola would have listened to these recording every day for the rest of her life.

She had moved to her bed and curled under the blankets when Jenna asked, “Did Santa come to me when Mommy and Daddy were alive?”

“Mommy and Daddy didn’t have Christmas.”

“Why?”

“Because they were Jewish.”

“What’s Jewish?”

“I don’t know. Like Kosher,” she mumbled, freefalling into slumber. She hugged one of the Indian pillows she kept in her bed even though the embroidery itched. “Go to sleep or I’ll never tell you another story.”