I head to the kitchen to make something to eat, but a nervous energy worms through my leg muscles, and I have a sudden desire to see Ruth, share my day with her. It’s a habit I developed when I was nine and my mother began sleeping most of the time. At first it was only a morning here, an afternoon nap there. I thought Mom was tired, so I didn’t think too much of it, until I’d come home from school to find her still in bed, blinds drawn, the air that drifted from the room smelling like unwashed hair and sweat mingling with the musk of alcohol. Things started to pile up around the apartment: dishes, laundry, garbage. And when she did emerge from her room, she couldn’t meet my eyes. Like she’d given up. I missed her sitting with me at the kitchen table after school, a plate of cookies between us, her head cocked to the side as she listened to me talk about my day, my homework, my friend troubles, anything and everything. I missed the feel of her lips on my forehead, kissing me good night. Her soft voice, humming gently while she measured and stirred, the sweetness of her creations clinging to her skin, a perfect perfume. She was disappearing, pieces of her falling off like discarded clothing, bit by bit, until one day I realized the mom I loved was gone.

It takes me only a few seconds to get to Ruth’s door. I knock, but there’s no answer. I knock again. From inside I hear a shuffling, then what sounds like muffled voices, more than one. I put my ear close to the door. “Ruth?”

“Hang on,” comes her voice. The door opens a crack, and Ruth pokes her wiry gray head out. “Game night doesn’t start until seven thirty.”

My notebook shakes in my hands when I blurt out, “Did you know that Bill Dunn died?” I flip pages. “And that I thought I could give guitar lessons?” I snort. “Isn’t that the most ridiculous idea?”