“Mama!” Suzy squirms out of Annie’s arms and races out to the porch, plunking herself on Mrs. Keller’s bony lap. She ashes her cigarette as Suzy plays with her gold charm bracelet, three hearts swinging from the chain. Mrs. Keller takes it off and clasps it around Suzy’s own wrist. “Your grandma gave that to me, ’cause I was her favorite. You’re lucky you’ll never have to deal with sisters trying to take it from you. You’ll always be my selfish only child.” She covers Suzy’s face with kisses and asks her about her dreams.

Annie stands staring at them, pocketing the cassette, before turning to the sink to do the dishes. She makes the water scalding, until steam rises, until the rush of water flowing over plastic cutlery cuts out the hum of Sondheim’s “Maria” from West Side Story, with Maria’s name replaced with “Susanna,” wafting through the screen door.

“I liked it. I like Tupac, too. He’s a pretty good writer.” Annie turns toward the voice. Mr. Keller stands in the kitchen doorway, his hands in his khaki pockets. He’s almost bashful in his defiance of his wife. Quickly, almost stumbling over his words, he adds, “Probably not good kid music, though.” Annie smiles slightly, turns back to the sink, her face flushed red by the steam. It’s the first real acknowledgment of her existence by the Kellers other than as an extension of Suzy. The first time either of them has acknowledged that she may have an opinion on something other than diaper rash balm.

She likes the attention.

7

Monday morning I wake up before my alarm. And it’s such a foreign concept that I panic, clench up inside for a moment, before I realize that I have a full hour before I have to answer any emails, before I have to listen to anyone except the dogs barking beneath my window.

It’s when I’m on my phone, opening the Seamless app, and punching in my usual bagel order, that I realize why I feel so well-rested, why I’m letting the early morning light filter onto my bed.

I didn’t dream.

Or if I did, I don’t remember specifics, and the sheer novelty of that experience makes me almost burst into tears. Those dreams of being untethered, gnawing on my subconscious, have become such a part of me, that for a second, a very short second, I’m mourning them. How will I know how to get through my days without them? Without the comfort of knowing that as anxiety-inducing, as loud and noisy and spontaneous as real life is, I’ve had those nightmares as a steady rhythm every night for almost a year, as regularly as a fundamentalist attends church.