His voice was barely audible. “Sounds perfect.”

“It was,” I agreed, more softly now, lost in the memory. “Mom loved books, too. Every gift was a book, or a journal, or cool pens, or paper. And she read everything. Like, every book I saw on the tables at the bookstore, she had already read.”

“It sounds like I would really like your mom.”

“Everyone loved her,” I told him. “She didn’t have much family—her parents died when she was young, too—but I swear everyone she met claimed her as their own.”

And they all floundered like fish out of water now without her, unsure what to do for us, unsure how to navigate Dad’s quiet reserve.

“Did she work?” Elliot asked.

“She was a buyer for Books Inc.”

“Wow. Really?” He sounded impressed that she was part of such a large Bay Area retailer, but inside I knew she’d grown tired of it. She always wanted her own store. It was only when she started getting sick that she and Dad were in a position to afford it. “Is that why your dad is building this closet for you?”

I shook my head, but the idea hadn’t even occurred to me until he said it. “I don’t think so. Maybe.”

“Maybe he wanted a place you could feel close to her.”

I was still shaking my head. Dad knew I couldn’t possibly think of Mom more. And he wouldn’t try to help me think of her less, either. It wouldn’t help. Just like holding your breath doesn’t change your body’s need for oxygen.

And as if I’d said that aloud, he asked, “But do you think of her more when you’re in here?”

Of course, I thought, but I ignored him, fidgeting instead with the edge of the quilt hanging over the side of the beanbag. I think of her everywhere. She is everywhere, in every moment, and also she’s in no one moment. She misses every single one of my moments and I’m not sure who that is harder for: me surviving here without her, or her without me, existing wherever she is.

“Macy?”

“What.”

“Do you think of her in here? Is that why you love this room?”

“I love the room because I love reading.”

And because when I find that book that makes me lose myself for just one hour, maybe more, I forget.

And because my dad thinks of Mom every time he buys me a book.

And because you’re here and I feel about a thousand times less lonely with you.

“But—”

“Please stop.” I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling my palms sweat, heart race, stomach curl into a knot around itself and all the feelings that sometimes felt too big for my body.

“Do you ever cry about her?”

“Are you kidding?” I gasped, and his eyes widened but he didn’t back down.

“It’s just that it’s Christmas,” he said quietly. “And when my mom was baking cookies earlier, I realized how familiar it was. It must be weird for you, that’s all.”