Which means it’s possible that Hawking discovered a theory for immortality before his own all-systems fail in his last days on Earth. Not, of course, a Philosopher’s Stone kind of immortality, but it might be possible that whatever is left of my parents is somehow being saved for all time in what amounts to a giant cosmological database. Dad’s theory on quintessence, Mom’s memories of the day she and Dad picked me up from social services, all the things they ever wanted to say to us and didn’t. Perhaps all of it’s still out there, somehow. Maybe that light at the end of the tunnel people like to talk about is just those hairs encoding everything we are before we’re nothing at all.

Most likely, this thought process is a stage of grief, demonstrating that I am just as susceptible as every human who has ever grieved to magical thinking. Dad would be so disappointed.

We’re holding the memorial under the rotunda at the beautiful library in downtown Los Angeles that Mom had once said was her church, and that Nah and I practically grew up in. It’s an art deco masterpiece, full of beautiful chandeliers and murals and wood paneling and marble.

A podium beneath the exquisitely painted ceiling has been placed before rows of already-full chairs, and behind it sits a projector screen on a stand. Gram, Papa, Aunt Nora, Uncle Tony, and our cousin Nate are gathered near the podium, going over last-minute details. Various relatives from both sides have flown in from Boston—Mom’s Greek side and Dad’s Mayflower crew.

Cynthia glides over in one of her gauzy sundresses straight from 1969. This one is dark purple. She’s laden down with amethysts that hang from her neck, and her burgundy hair is in a Frida-inspired braid—she and Mom did an online tutorial to figure it out last year. The ribbons woven into her hair are sage green, Mom’s favorite color.

“Mis hijas,” she says, wrapping her arms around us both.

I breathe in her lavender scent, and I suppose there is some truth to the calming effects of certain essential oils.

“She’s here,” Cynthia says, leaning back. “I can feel her. Can you?”

“I can’t tell what’s her and what’s me,” Nah says.

Maybe Nah is undergoing the same grief psychosis as me.

“That’s because she’s a part of you,” Cyn says.

But she’s not a part of me. Not technically. We don’t share blood, DNA. I didn’t grow inside her.

“It might feel like we feel them,” I say. “But I think it’s a game our minds are playing. Some sort of defense mechanism against grief—”

“Mae.” Hannah shakes her head. “You can’t prove everything.”

“You can try. You should try.”