He spent months in the hospital, withering away. His body was riddled with cancer. Despite the horrors he’d put his family through, they were there for him as he died. When I asked Hannah why, she said, “He’s still my father.”

It was the bond of blood; I could see that so clearly with Hannah. People can physically and emotionally destroy those they are supposed to love, and the victims continue to hold them dear because of the perception that in death, we owe them forgiveness.

After weeks in the hospital, Hannah’s father finally went into cardiac arrest, and the doctors recommended he not be resuscitated.

I went to the funeral with Hannah. Her mother was dressed in black, and I watched carefully for her reaction. She didn’t shed a tear. She didn’t carry his blood in her veins. Hannah wept and I held her hand, passing her a tissue from my purse.

As mourners spoke fondly of the man he was, I realized that when you die you are absolved of all your transgressions. You become immortal. Your flaws and sins no longer exist. People remember you how they want to remember you—only the light, never the darkness.

I wanted that so desperately for myself.

Chapter 88

Dear Sunshine,

Why did you stop kissing me goodnight?

Love,
G

Chapter 89

I didn’t want her to find me like that. Or maybe I did.

I had climbed into bed, wearing a white dress that I’d bought from a vintage store uptown. It resembled the christening gown I’d seen in my parents’ closet as a child, laid flat in something that wasn’t much larger than a shoebox. It was slightly yellowed and wrinkled, lined with lace, and smelled of mildew and incense.

Later, I dug through the drawers in our kitchen, searching for photographs of the day I was baptized. After separating the pictures with licked fingers for what felt like hours, I triumphantly placed three glossy prints, side by side, on the counter.

The first was of William wearing the gown, blond hair shining with moisture, in the arms of my smiling parents near the altar. The second was of Annabelle, all brown eyes, mouth exaggeratedly wide and ruddy faced as my mother held her close to her chest in what I can only imagine was an attempt to soothe the screaming darling. The third was of me, looking serene in a way that was oddly chilling. My parents, for some reason, were not in the photo, and I was being held over the baptism bowl by a priest who poured a stream of water onto my golden head.

I searched my face, desperate for some sort of familiarity. My infant pugged nose, my ocean-blue, saucer-shaped eyes, my tightly clenched fingers that formed a tiny ball. But no matter how long I stared, I couldn’t recognize her. I saw nothing of myself.

I didn’t write a note. I didn’t need to blame anyone or leave my family with something to analyze and agonize over. I didn’t want to write.