We all live more than one lifetime in a life. I’ve always thought that. But when Alex opens the door to her fancy loft apartment, her face is still an eight-year-old’s, changed only a little to fit an adult body. She hasn’t lost the freckles or that startled look, as if she’s just been told it’s her week for show-and-tell and she’s forgotten to bring in a toy. She’s willowy and beautiful, though, dark auburn hair, long arms like a ballet dancer’s, and yet there’s a scruffiness to her, a kind of scrappy soul she’s hung on to from childhood. I haven’t seen her for ten years.

“Hello,” I say, clearing my throat. “I thought it was time.”

She doesn’t do anything except gape. It’s possible I’m not a sight for sore eyes; I might not even be welcome. I made a choice a long time ago, and as soon as I made it, I sealed my fate. But none of that matters now.

“Can I help you?” A man who is so physically flawless he must be a model moves in behind her. “Alex, who’s this?”

“My sister,” she says. The words come out as a scrape.

“Seriously?” Model Material swings the door wider, and I see him take in the ragged hem of my sweater. He’s a Gap ad, all pastels and hope. “Well, hi. Wow. Alex always said that—”

“I said you’re not really one to visit, Ruth.” My sister gives him a pointed look. “That’s what I said.”

“I guess it’s been a while,” I say.

“It has.” She pauses and then steps aside, and I move past them both, the smell of the man overpowering, like the cologne counter in a department store. The loft has vaulted ceilings, and everything’s white. I feel I’ve just entered an art gallery and I mustn’t leave a smudge.

“Nice place,” I say, lowering my bag to the floor gently so the contents don’t make a sound.

“Thanks a lot, yeah.” The man glances at Alex, not quite knowing what to do. Then he picks up my bag and hangs it on a coat hook to the side of the door. “I got a great deal on this place. Friends in the right circles. Come in, sit down. Take a load off.”

The way he’s talking, it’s like he knows I’ve been through hell, like he can see it on me. Alex, for her part, looks like she’s been drained of all bodily fluid. The guy urges me to the designer couch, where I perch at the farthest edge of the cushion, frightened to make a dent. Alex lives here? It doesn’t seem like her at all, not like the girl I once knew. None of us talk; we sit. We simply stare. A minute goes by.