Carrie sat on the floor near the gown. “She kept the stories they wrote about her,” she heard herself say.

Zoe slid down to the floor next to her. “It looks as if she didn't start until the eighties,” she said in a soothing voice. “So you were right. In the beginning she meant to keep a low profile.”

“She said when people told us how terrific we were, we couldn't let it turn into an ego trip …”

“So she kept a few newspaper articles. Carrie, she helped a lot of people …”

“She said we had to remember that we weren't doing it for ourselves. It was for the shelter and the families. Our motives had to be pure. I thought she meant it.”

“She did. She just wasn't quite as pure as you thought.”

“But she told me she was,” Carrie said childishly.

“It's just a scrapbook …”

“I believed her. Everyone believed her.”

“Why don't we get out of here for a while?” Clearly Zoe had decided Carrie was fragile.

Carrie pulled the rosary out of her pocket. “Mother never went to Communion,” she said.

“We don't have to clear out the whole apartment today.”

“I never told you about Mother not going to Communion—did I?”

“We can come back when you're up to it—”

“She went to Mass every Sunday—sometimes she went during the week too. I went with her—”

“We'll go get some lunch—”

“I went up for Communion, but she never did. Not once.”

“There's a great little greasy spoon on Eighty-sixth and Broadway …”

“When everyone else went up to the altar she'd get this look on her face, like she was really hurting …and then she'd stay in her seat, praying.”

“Okay, praying is a good thing—right?”

“It's not a substitute for going to Communion! In the old days not going to Communion was a heavy-duty sin for Catholics.”

“Carrie …”

“I never asked her about it. I never asked her about my father, or my grandmother … I never asked her about anything.”

“I know, Carrie.”

“Who was she? She was the most important person in my life, and I never knew anything about her.”

“So find out. It's time.”