Josie followed her aunt and watched her thin black heels clip the asphalt. From the back, she looked so much like her mother—the same over-processed blonde hair, the same broad, strong back that tapered to a tiny waist, firmly cinched by a belt.

Her mother and her aunt had owned what, when she was young, seemed a million belts. And the belts had been perfect playthings. Josie would grab an armful from her mother’s closet, fasten each, and lay them on the floor. They were hopscotch squares. They were rings for seals to swim through. Josie would play in the dressing room as her mother dressed to go out, not wanting her mother to leave but not knowing how to say it. Josie could remember the sharp, biting smell of her mother’s perfume, how sometimes her mother would let her put a little on each wrist, and later, when Alba put her to bed, Josie would press her nose to her arms and fall asleep with her mother still on her. That smell. Even today when she caught a whiff of it, she could feel the familiar pull in her belly, and for the first time, Josie was overcome by a deep and heavy sadness. Her mother was dead. There would be no night visits, no forgiveness granted. What Josie wanted more than anything in the world would never, ever happen. The realization overwhelmed her, and she crumbled to the curb.

Her aunt turned around. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

All air seemed to have left her body and, along with it, her blood, bones, kidneys. Never had she felt so empty, a dry calyx.

“Josie?” Her aunt bent beside her. “Talk to me.”

She wanted to squeeze her fist around herself, crush her thin, papery casing and dust the ground with it, and then, as if on cue, her aunt took her chin in her hand.

“Listen to me. I know … I know you two had your issues, but you have to know your mother loved you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, she did,” her aunt snapped.

Josie wanted to shake her aunt, wanted to ask if she was blind, wanted to shout that her mother had seen her, seen her violence, her cruelty. She knew me, she wanted to scream.

“It was just hard for her to show it,” her aunt continued.

“Not always.”

“No; of course not, sweetie.” But that was not what Josie had meant. What she had meant was that before—before Matthew died—it had been different. She could remember how her mother had washed her hair with strawberry shampoo, wrapped her in her pink silk robe, and let her fall asleep right next to her—right next to her. Before, her mother had been different. And before, Josie had been different too.