“The door?” Ruth says.

“I was coming right back in. That was thirty seconds.”

“Yes, but the heat.”

“We’re leaving anyway.”

“Well, the orchids aren’t. And I need to get them watered before we leave, and we need to leave if we’re going to make it back in time for the lighting, so just do me the favor of shutting the door behind you so I can do what I need to get done.”

“Fine, Ruth,” he says, exaggeratedly pulling the door closed behind him. “Is your bag ready to go?”

“It’s upstairs.”

Wilson turns to the staircase; Ruth returns to her father’s orchids. Her orchids, she corrects herself, but she will always think of them as her father’s orchids. She remembers his greenhouse when she was growing up, the earthy smell of it, how she had helped him each summer to carry the plants outside and hang them on the branches of a tree—just as Isabelle helps Ruth do the same now, she thinks, and she wonders if someday Isabelle will be the one to water and feed these orchids.

The watering can is almost empty; Ruth brings it to the sink to refill. She hears over the sound of running water Wilson’s footsteps on the stairs and then in the hall. She turns the water off so that she can listen for the sound of the door, and again, she hears it open but she doesn’t hear it close.

“Goddammit!” she mutters. She sets the watering can down hard in the sink and turns to storm outside, the bottom of her cardigan catching on the hook of an orchid hanger as she passes and pulling the orchid to the floor. The pot breaks; the soil scatters. Ruth presses her hands hard against her eyes and sucks a breath in through her teeth. She stands for a moment, trying to calm herself, and then, slowly, she lowers her hands and opens her eyes.

She takes a dust pan and brush from beneath the sink and returns to her orchids. There is a spare pot with the fertilizer underneath the bench, at least, Ruth thinks, though she knows she won’t have time to adequately repot before they have to leave. She crouches down by the mess and is starting to sweep the dirt and wood chips up when Wilson comes back into the kitchen.

“The goddamn door,” Ruth says.

“Look, Ruth,” Wilson is saying. “I have things on my mind, too. I’m sorry the goddamn door slipped my mind.”

“Two minutes after I reminded you, Wilson!”

“What can I say? Look—” He stops midsentence.

“Look, what?” Ruth says. She looks up at him; the expression on his face is one she doesn’t recognize, a combination of horror and bewilderment, and it makes Ruth’s heart skip. “What, Wil?” she says, and she follows his gaze to the doorway behind her, where Isabelle is standing in her parka, her backpack on her back, her tote bag in her hand, her hair a feathered mess of what it used to be.