“She’s being metaphorical.” My voice is as steady as I can make it. “She means she’s planning to be a good mother.” Has she wiped everything that happened before from her memory? If she believes she’s capable of being a mom, she’s blocked it all out. My hand trembles as I lift my wineglass.

Chase fills in the silence. “A nursery sounds like a great thing. And … where will this nursery be?”

I know he’s trying to help, but he’s so entirely literal. It’s as if he’s wandered into a movie halfway through and is trying to guess the plot.

“Your food’s delicious,” Ruth says. Typical, age-old avoidance.

“Thank you. It’s all organic, locally sourced.” Chase glances to the bay window as if the weather threatens, but it doesn’t. “Alex, it’s getting pretty late. Is your sister staying? Or is there somewhere we can take you, Ruth? Do you have a place to—”

I grip the wineglass. “She can stay here,” I say. “Just for tonight. Then she needs a better plan.”

“Thank you,” Ruth mutters. She keeps her head low and continues to eat.

Later, we set her up with clean sheets on the couch and Chase gives her a towel. She doesn’t shower. The bag she brought with her hangs by the front door. If there’s a toothbrush inside it, she doesn’t go looking for it. Once we’ve established that the couch is hers for the night, Chase and I can’t watch television, relax, or go anywhere in the loft except to the far end, where our own bedroom is. I pack a few things in the kitchen for work tomorrow, while Ruth sits with her back to me. Our good nights are lackluster and clipped.

“She’s different from anything I expected,” Chase whispers once we hear Ruth pad her way into the bathroom. We can both see the light on in there through the gap in our bedroom door. I undress hurriedly, as if being timed.

“You told me you thought she was probably dead,” he says.

I don’t take the bait. I’ve got nothing to say. The last thing I’m doing is explaining myself.

He gets into bed and sits cross-legged, a child with a big man-chest. “I kind of had this idea in my head that if she was alive, she was living out of dumpsters or shouting at pigeons. But she seems … normal. Why do you think she showed up now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Is it? You told me she was a drug addict.”

“She is. She was. She was when I last saw her.” I toss my T-shirt to the ground. “Look, she abandoned my entire family. Just up and ran away from us all, never to be seen again. I didn’t know what became of her. She was a mess. I just assumed the worst.”