I open the refrigerator and bend my six-foot frame to see inside, where I quickly spot the romaine, Parmesan cheese, chicken breasts, a bright-yellow lemon, and a clove of garlic stacked together on the top shelf along with a lined three-by-five recipe card. Cool air from the refrigerator brushes my ankles with goose bumps and a wisp of a memory. Of Mom doing something similar and me helping, gathering the ingredients and watching her chop and mince, listening to her humming a song I didn’t know, the light touch of her body beside mine, a warmth radiating from my chest.

I scrape garlic skin into the trash, and the full bin taints the air with an overripe sweetness that makes me queasy. Thinking of how Mom was, what she could have been, permeates my mood, turns it blacker than the clouds that hang heavy with rain outside my window. When I was a very little girl, before her nightmares became more than she could handle, before alcohol replaced everyone who loved her, I wanted to be just like her.

One particular memory floats to the surface. I am young, tucked under the covers, legs curled up and into my chest, pretending to be asleep. Mom leans over me; her thick dark hair swings past her shoulders, feathery across my cheek. Her breath is stale and sweet in the way that makes her eyes dull like the plastic ones on my doll. I keep my eyes squeezed shut and feel her lips brush my forehead. It’s not your fault, Claire, honey. Not your fault. Her words come out in a slur, and it’s hard to understand her. I’msosorry, Claire bear. Sosorry. She is crying but I don’t open my eyes, I don’t put my arms around her neck, because I don’t make her happy. I only make her sad.

I turn to the cutting board, place my hands on either side, and breathe, ignoring how my chest aches with how much I longed for her to be better. How the feeling turns me into a little girl even now. But then Dad’s face appears in my mind—thick beard, brown eyes that crinkle when he laughs. At least I have him.

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

A buzz from my phone reminds me that I’m getting dinner ready, so I reach for a green apron that hangs from a hook on the wall, and when I tie it around my waist, it barely hangs midthigh—more like a miniskirt. I snort; they don’t make aprons for tall women. The rain pounds the building, heavy and loud, so I open a music app and push play, and rock music fills the apartment, mutes the noise outside. I swing my hips to the music; it’s a Black Crowes tune, I think, and the rhythm of drums laced with the electric squeal of guitars soothes me with its familiar beat.