The room lay before her, the enormous king-sized bed spreading out like an island in front of her, newspapers and contracts covering the blue floral bedspread her mother had brought home from Paris. She was afraid of what she would find—a journal, perhaps, or private letters to her aunt—but she needed to do this. She would start with the bathroom, thinking her mother’s hair spray and nail polish remover easier to dispose of and less likely to hold secrets. In the shower, she removed the color-enhancing shampoo, the lilac soap, the silver-handled razor her mother had taught her to shave her legs with on her thirteenth birthday. That day, Josie had watched her mother press the razor firmly against her own now teenage leg, watched as the blade made one clean, hairless stripe. Her mother then handed her the razor, told her to press gently, to pull in one steady stroke, and Josie did. She dragged the razor carefully, watched the stripe widen, and thrilled at the new leg that was emerging. She felt proud, exhilarated even, and she looked up to find her mother teary-eyed. “It’s okay, baby,” her mother said, and sat down on the edge of the tub. “You’re doing great. Don’t stop.” Josie looked back at her white foamy leg and felt a lump rise in her own throat. She wanted to cuddle close to her mother, to feel her mother’s tenderness as a real, live thing, but she focused on her leg and slowly removed every single hair, trying to make this warm closeness last as long as possible.