“He broke it off, he says, for your sake. He . . . he thought it would be . . . too much for you to deal with. Or at least he’s trying to. Break it off.”

For Amelia, the world had stopped. It was strange to think of her father in this new way. He’d never had a girlfriend before. At least not that she knew of. None that she’d met. She fixed her gaze on the painting next to the refrigerator. It was a painting of a white horse standing in tall grass. She stared at the white horse. She stared without seeing.

Amelia blinked. “Do you think she looks like my mother?” she asked.

Long pause. The seconds seemed separate, widely spaced, strung out like beads on a cord.

“Yes. Yes, I think she does.”

“Do you think she looks like me?”

Another pause. “Yes. You know, it’s not uncommon for people to . . . find people who look like . . . the person who . . . oh, you know what I mean, honey.”

Amelia yawned. It was getting late. “Do you think he got in an accident?”

“No.”

“Do you think he and his girlfriend took off on a trip?”

Mrs. O’Brien laughed. “Given how much your father loves to travel—no.”

Mrs. O’Brien rose from the table. She walked over to Amelia and gave her an awkward hug from behind. “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “I don’t know why he hasn’t come home yet.”

Because he’s a coward, thought Amelia.

“Why don’t you sleep over at my house tonight?” said Mrs. O’Brien. “It’ll be just like old times, when you were little. I’ll write him a note.”

There was an understanding between them that was bigger than words. Deeper. Ultimately, Mrs. O’Brien knew what to say and when to say it. She knew what to do and how to get it done.

Amelia’s throat had begun to close. She turned toward Mrs. O’Brien. She smiled through tight lips and she nodded.

25 • Sleepover

Mrs. O’Brien’s house was familiar and strange at the same time. It was right across the street, and yet it seemed a world away, a house in a foreign land. Amelia had slept over at Mrs. O’Brien’s several times when she was little, but she hadn’t in years. In fact, she hadn’t set foot in the house in quite a while. But the smell when she entered it met her like an invisible curtain and she felt a jolt of recognition.

Like Mrs. O’Brien, the house smelled clean and soapy—not too perfumy, not too citrusy, not spicy. If clear water had a smell, thought Amelia, this would be it. Amelia drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly as she followed Mrs. O’Brien down the narrow hallway lined with old photographs to the guest room.

The room was painted periwinkle blue and was decorated with four framed paintings Amelia had done when she was probably four or five. A cat formed of circles and triangles. A purple and pink rainbow. A sun above a row of flowers that looked like little suns. A butterfly. The big bed that took up most of the room was covered with a patchwork quilt.