Now they were all in the house, scattering like soldiers to their different tasks. Marah had herded the boys into their room to watch television. Mom was busy making casseroles; Dad was probably mowing the lawn. That left Johnny, Tully, and Kate, making their way down the hallway toward the guest room, which had been redecorated for her homecoming.

“The docs wanted you in a hospital bed,” Johnny said. “I’ve got one, too, see? We’ll be like Ricky and Lucy in our twin beds.”

“Of course.” She’d meant to sound matter-of-fact, to simply acknowledge what they both knew: soon she would have trouble sitting up and the bed would help, but her voice betrayed her. “Y-you painted,” she said to her husband. The last time she’d seen this room it had been barn-red with white trim and red and blue furniture—a casual, beachy look with lots of painted antique pieces and shells in glass bowls. Now it was pale green, almost celery-colored, with rose accents. Family photos were everywhere, in white porcelain frames.

Tully stepped forward. “Actually, I did it.”

“Something to do with shysters,” Johnny said.

“Chakras,” Tully corrected him. “It’s stupid, I’m sure, but . . .” She shrugged. “I did a show on it once. Couldn’t hurt.”

Johnny carried Kate to her bed and tucked her in. “The bathroom down here is all set up for you. Everything has been installed—railings and a shower seat and all the stuff they recommended. A hospice nurse will be coming by . . .”

She wasn’t sure when she closed her eyes. All she knew was that she was sleeping. Somewhere a radio was playing “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” and she could hear people talking in the distance. Then Johnny was kissing her and telling her she was beautiful and talking about the vacations they would someday take.

She awoke with a start. The room around her was dark now; she’d slept through the remaining daylight hours, obviously. Beside her, a eucalyptus-scented candle burned. The darkness lulled her for a moment, made her think she was alone.

Across the room, a shadow moved. Someone breathed.

Kate hit the button on her bed and moved to a sit. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey, Mom.”

She grew accustomed to the darkness and saw her daughter, sitting in a chair in the corner. Although Marah looked tired, she was so beautiful that Kate felt a cinching in her chest. Being home again made her see everything and everyone with perfect clarity, even in this gray darkness. When she looked at her teenage daughter, with her long black hair kept out of her eyes with little girl barrettes, she glimpsed the whole arc of life—the child she’d been, the girl she was, the woman she’d become.

“Hey, baby girl.” She smiled and leaned sideways to turn on the bedside lamp. “But you aren’t my baby anymore, are you?”