“Josie? Oh, God, honey, we’ve been waiting for you to call since last night.” It was her Aunt Steffi. “Hold on. Let me get your dad.”

Josie stared at the sink. Tyler’s crusted cereal bowl sat among two sippy cups, an assortment of silverware, three plates, and a coffee mug. She hadn’t done the dishes yesterday morning because Tyler was running late. He had lost a sneaker, and they had searched but not found it, and he eventually went to school in socks and sandals.

She was wondering if she would see Tyler, if he would even stay in the same room with her, when her father got on the line.

“Sweetie,” he said. She hadn’t heard his voice in a long time, and she had a quick jab of homesickness. “Sweetie, your mother … I have to tell you something,” and then the rest seemed to pour like honey from a tiny spout, slow and continuous.

Josie listened. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Yes, okay,” she said. “Okay, yes, tomorrow.” And then she placed the receiver gently back on the cradle.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ON THE PLANE THE NEXT MORNING, JOSIE WATCHED THE LITTLE girl next to her play with her dolls. She was six or seven, and her hair went so far down her back that she had to drape her braids over her shoulders to avoid sitting on them. She changed the dolls’ outfits, brushed their hair, and talked to them about the ocean in California and how to avoid sharks. They had been flying for over an hour and a half and so far the little girl had only stopped chattering to her dolls to drink a can of ginger ale.

Eventually the girl’s mother leaned over to Josie and said, “She can play by herself forever.”

Josie smiled.

“Are you vacationing in California?” the mother asked. The woman looked like she was from Southern California—blonde hair, brown skin, and designer clothes. Josie realized that she hadn’t seen a designer bag or a hundred-dollar T-shirt since she left Santa Barbara.

“No,” Josie said.

“Business?”

“A funeral.” Talking to this woman was not what she wanted to do at this moment, but she felt a sense of obligation for ogling her daughter.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Not someone close, I hope.”

“My mother.”

The woman gasped, and Josie warmed with the charge of shocking her.

“I’m so sorry.”

Josie didn’t say anything.

“You must still be in shock.”

Josie knew she was not in shock. Rather, she felt disembodied. It was the same feeling she’d had during that last fight with Mary, the same feeling her childhood dream drew on. She was outside herself, but this time she was watching an aquarium of her insides, different feelings swimming by, one after another. It was hard to dwell on one for any period of time; each was more curious than the next, and yet it was all dully familiar.