Maura’s mouth tightens into a white line. “Yes, well, he won’t be getting his fifteen percent off me anymore, don’t you worry. Anyway, you’re here now. And don’t worry about the burial thing. We’ll scatter her ashes together when you’re ready.”

And now the grief chaser: that my mother’s ashes are sitting in an ugly, overpriced urn at a family friend’s house in LA because I was frozen by the thought of how the hell to get it all the way up here. Maura will kill me. But she’s folding me into a hug before I can get the words out. I’m stiff, awkward, but she is warm. I relax into her, just so. Then it’s over.

“See you in the morning. Holler if you need me, though you’ve got ten minutes before I’m out like a light. So make it quick if you do.”

I continue up, up, huffing slightly as I reach the third floor. I’m going to need to develop better cardio and strength if I’m going to live here. I locate the dumbwaiter to my left. The door creaks open. It looks rarely used, but the inside has recently been retrofitted. The rope is new, and all I have to do is push a button to the right of the door to activate the pulley system. Two minutes later and I’m hauling all my earthly possessions up the final, narrow staircase that leads to the fourth-floor attic space.

The landing is small; I’m in the eaves of the house. There are only two rooms on this floor. A door on either side of me. I try behind me and find a white-tiled private bath: nothing special, yet twice the size of my old one.

That makes the other door my new bedroom. Skylights have been cut into the slanted ceiling, bookshelves installed in the low-slung walls. The windows are open, but it’s still a bit warm. This place must be murder in the summer. There’s a window nook with a bench, framed with pretty purple curtains. A desk, by the look of it brand-new—some unpronounceable Ikea piece—against the left wall, and a double bed with an elaborate wooden headboard abutting the right.

Purple was my favorite color when I was six. I’m touched Maura remembered. Now, though, I love green. Like my backpack, whose straps are digging hard into my shoulders. I’d nearly forgotten about it, a sea creature accustomed to its shell. I slide it off my back, sling it onto the bed. I leave my suitcase by the door. I can’t unpack yet. My denial. Maybe this is a vacation and I’ll fly back home in a few weeks to find my mom waiting for me.