It was the first time they would travel together, and Esther had doubts about that since she wouldn’t have the focus or the time for entertaining Cora. But, with school out for winter break, Cora went unworriedly and so Esther did her best not to worry about it either. She liked the idea of having Cora along for support—she got tremors in her hands when she flew alone—but beyond that, no one had ever shown interest in a subject just because Esther was interested. Cora’s curiosity, uncomprehending as it could be, made Esther want to open herself like a neglected vacation home. Shuck the curtains wide, dash from room to room sweeping dust off the shelves and shaking out the furniture covers, calling, Yes, yes, I’m here, welcome. Come inside and look around.

* * *

When Esther was in elementary school, her best friend was Hope. It’s miraculous to her now the way that childhood friendships run, because she couldn’t name, for all the money she’s ever had, a single thing she and Hope had in common. They had gone to the same school for only one year before Hope’s parents opted for homeschooling instead, but they were friends longer. Esther was dimly aware that Hope’s family was Christian fundamentalist. Her awareness of what that meant was even vaguer, except that she had a list of forbidden topics of conversation that included dinosaurs, trick-or-treating, ghosts, and politics.

Of course, the omissions mattered more as they got older. Slowly, the list became longer or more relevant or both. Esther lost touch with Hope entirely sometime in high school, but for a while before that they saw each other a couple of times a year.

Esther had a fantasy around then, when she thought that she was very wise and very worldly and Hope lived in a glass coffin. Hope would be visiting her, sitting on her pink quilted coverlet, and then she’d say that she wanted to read Esther’s books. She felt as if the world were keeping a secret from her. Her face would be pale and sweet as cake frosting, and Esther would trip over herself pulling books down from the shelves, scrambling to finally, finally give them a common language again. She would start Hope with Anais, open the book in her lap, pressing warm shoulder to warm shoulder on the bed until their bones slid together.

Or, after reading several stories, Hope would confess, haltingly, like she barely knew the words for it. She would say, “I think there’s something wrong with me,” and then just sit there, trying to chip language out of the silence. Esther would listen to her like a doctor, waiting for Hope to hook and dredge out all her feelings. And then she’d say, “It’s okay. It’s actually okay.” She’d put her arms around Hope, and she’d kiss her just to show her that it was.

* * *