A small sigh from Beth, a squeak of a sound. “I know, babe. I know. I get that. I get that you need a mommy figure right now. And you don’t need to stop loving her! Maybe you can stage some kind of intervention? See what the fuck is up? I can be there, too. Or Gavin, if that’s easier.”

And then, before I can stop myself: “Can you come here?”

Without missing a beat, without a moment of hesitation, she says, “Of course. I’ll be there in twenty.” She comes in fifteen and smothers me in a hug, kissing me on the cheek, leaving lipstick smudges. And any anger I had toward her melts away, and I’m overcome with such a profound sense of gratitude to have her here that I can barely stay on my feet.

“See, you did miss me,” she says as we sit on my bed, eating chain-store pizza, her thighs tight around a bottle of orange wine. She feeds me a slice of pizza, its mass-produced chemical taste a joy to my tongue.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much.” I take the wine, gulp it down, and put my head in her lap without asking, waiting for her to begin combing out my hair. We’re not talking about Anneliese. We have 90 Day Fiancé on my laptop, and she’s telling me about Ellery, how her favorite author was David Foster Wallace (“red fucking flag”), how she didn’t vote in 2016, how she didn’t like frosting and would leave the tops of cupcakes lying around, buttercream melting.

“Disaster. How could she? Terrible, terrible human.” I giggle. Beth is such a bitch, and I did miss her, especially her pettiness. I egg her on until we’ve collapsed into a fit of laughter, marinara sauce staining my sheets, the bottle of wine empty. And how many other nights have we had like this? Beth complaining about some ex-girlfriend who just wants to be loved by her? Who has sent her a dozen texts asking to get back together with no response?

Seriously, she’s cold. But I love her for it, and when she falls asleep snoring, taking up most of the bed, I can’t help but smile. Sometimes you need your best friend instead of a mother.

26

March 1997

Mrs. Keller has been set up in the guest bedroom down the hall from the master, near Suzy’s room and Annie’s. She has two rotating nurses, one for day and one for night. Two women in their thirties, prematurely aged, just how Mrs. Keller wanted them. The day one is called Christine, a tiny woman with a gray bun and lines around her eyes and lips. The evening nurse is Serena, a dowdy haircut, a permanent frown.