Rose really didn’t want hot chocolate after all the Chinese food but said yes because her mother looked so fluffy and happy as she got out the cream and cocoa.

Jerram came down and had some, too, reading a book and tapping to the beat in his headphones at the same time. Dad came into the kitchen, stretched, sniffed and said where was his.

They sat around the table talking until midnight. Then Mom snapped out of it and cried, “Get to bed!”

Rose felt warm and sleepy. A Totally Contented State, Jerram would probably call it. She slipped effortlessly into sleep without knowing it. And dreamed.

Eight

Her bed was an island on an ocean of floor, or a ship moving slowly toward a distant horizon, the sea as thick and indolent as honey. She sailed for a while, content and undisturbed.

Then she knew something was wrong.

The windows were open. Pine trees glistened in moonlight. Nancy Emerson came in, bringing the fresh clean smell of pine forest with her. No longer was she wearing the piggy-pink down jacket, but was dressed in a long white gown that enveloped her in languid, elegant folds. She floated across the floor.

Again Rose felt annoyed. “Go away!” she growled.

“I’ve got a problem and I don’t know what to do,” Nancy said in a practical conversational tone, as if her appearance were nothing unusual, as if she and Rose had just bumped into each other on the street.

“You’re dead, Nancy.” Rose winced at the harsh truth in the words.

Nancy made a face. “I know that,” she said, dismissing it. “But could you come with me a minute?”

Not again, Nancy, Rose wanted to scream, but found herself floating toward the door on the tidal wave that was Nancy’s dress. Nancy’s clutching hand was cold and dry. Rose could feel the bones inside.

Off the balcony and over the tips of the pines, once again thinking how she had always known how to fly and how she would try it again at Muriel’s studio, but be more careful this time.

They flew effordessly through the night air and this time Rose paid attention. She saw Bethboro below: streetlights winking green and red, the neon glow of the 7-Eleven lighting up a dark corner on route 7, the lights of the Cabin River bridge like a string of diamonds. The recent snow was buttercream frosting on the dark chocolate hills.

I could get into this, she thought, to fly through the night at will, to leave the earth behind, to move upward toward the stars. The wind rushed in her ears, her head felt wild and dizzy. Then Nancy’s cold hand tightened and pulled, and they came down to earth with the sickening lurch of a descending roller coaster. There was a bad smell, like lead pencils and erasers ground up in Clorox.