In another part of the house, in Mrs. Keller’s closet, hang a few identical dresses in grown-up sizes. When Annie first noticed this, she thought for a moment that she was in Wonderland, that somehow things that used to be small had grown quite large. She had gripped the bigger dress with her thumb and forefinger, for a moment too long, she imagines, because Mrs. Keller had come around the corner then and laughed. “My mother-in-law loves Mommy-and-me dresses. I used to think it was a bit strange myself, but you know, Suzy loves it.” Annie had never heard of such a thing.

On these mornings, after she has gazed at a sleeping Suzy and double-checked that the bedroom window is babyproofed, she makes her way downstairs to start the coffee and get breakfast settled. Mr. Keller usually trots downstairs by nine, grabs coffee and a bowl of Cheerios, before going back upstairs to his office to work. On the days she goes into the city, Mrs. Keller is up around the same time as Annie, dashing to her car with a banana and her coffee in a thermos, leaving long lists of to-do’s that Annie carefully tears into long, thin strips at the end of the day. But mostly, she’s in bed until ten and Annie has the large stretch of quiet to herself.

One morning, she dips into the lake naked. The sun is barely up, the sky is purple, and the water is cold. Annie feels like she is shedding skin, the lake inserting its chill between her labia, pricking her nipples. She drinks some of it, slurping it up with her tongue like a dog. She knows this lake. She has spent enough time in it that she is aware of exactly how long it’ll take to prune her hands. It’s the same lake her youngest sister almost drowned in as a toddler.

Annie’s mother loved the lake. She would wrap her hair in a bandana to match her swimsuit. Pack chips and sandwiches and shovels and buckets, fasten the kids into the car, and take them to the public beach with her, teach them to find beach glass (different from sea glass, which is frostier). Annie knew that before all the children, her mother would go alone, at odd twilight hours, and sit and watch the waves, losing time on those sandy banks.

The day Gabriella almost drowned, Annie noticed her mother grow more languid and sleepy as she sipped her iced tea. She reached out to Annie, who had stayed back on the shore to read, and cupped her face and squeezed, and said in that garbled voice, You’re my good, bright kid, baby, and I’ll always be here for you. Anything you need.