“I knew she was depressed. The pain pills were from my back surgery years ago. Doc prescribed sixty of ’em. I only took two, should’ve flushed the rest.”

“She would’ve found another way. She wants you to know that.”

“The song you were humming . . . me and my sis, we used to sing it in rounds.”

“What song?”

“An old English tune called ‘Rose Red.’ ” Kelly softly sings . . .

Rose, Rose, Rose

Will I ever see thee wed?

I will marry at thy will, sire

At thy will . . .

Ding dong, ding dong

Wedding bells on an April morn

Carve your initials on a moss-covered stone,

On a moss-covered stone . . .

Ah, poor bird

Take thy flight

Fly above the sorrows

Of this sad night . . .

“Rose, that was my sis’s name,” Kelly says. “She was nineteen. She’ll never marry or have children or get to watch mine grow . . . I miss her so much.”

Sylvie’s eyes shine. “It’s okay to miss the people you loved. But they’re at peace and want you to be at peace, too.”

My cell phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. The texts are from Daryl.

Rose’s suicide date? WTF?!

AND I had a sister who died when she was four years old!!

Her name was Dawn. She was deaf.

I tuck the phone away as Sylvie walks over to the leather chairs in the middle of the stage set on either side of a small table and sits. Moose settles beside her and she rests one hand on his broad back, looks into the audience like she really sees us, and says, “If you leave here today with nothing else, know this: If someone you loved met a violent end, or suffered an illness before passing, that wasn’t their life. It was all the years before then—every joy, celebration, adventure, and love. Death is only a moment.”

Around me, shoulders relax, fists unclench. Some people smile while others wipe away tears. We’ve reached the grand finale, where one person gets called to the stage for an in-depth read. Sylvie will ask for a personal object to help her. Almost everyone in the audience has brought something. I have a ring in the pocket of my jeans.

There’s a collective intake of breath; on the exhale prayers are murmured. Sylvie scans the audience then slowly lifts her arm and initially points up toward the balcony, hesitates, then lowers her arm and points . . . at me.

FOUR

Sylvie

I pick Orchestra, Row C, Seat 23. I almost chose First Balcony, Row D, Seat 37. But Seat 23 caught my eye as I worked the theater, always drawing me back to the part of the stage directly in front of him. It has happened before, where I’ve been pulled to help someone, but the feeling that this man was the most important person in the audience, that I needed to choose him for the final reading, was impossible to ignore. Now he glances left then right to make sure I mean him.