Addie was aware of the fact that her mother had not been ordinary in the slightest. She was sturdy and strong, could roll up her sleeves and do what had to be done. That was her legacy to Addie. Do what has to be done. Addie secretly believed that her mother charged headlong into fraught situations because she knew that if she had to, she could wring someone’s neck as easily as she could wring water out of sheets in the laundry room when the mangle was broken. If anyone even used a mangle anymore. Apparently, her mom had, because she’d mentioned mangles more than a few times.

She had also held strong opinions about issues of personal cleanliness. Under the parental eye, Addie as a young child was frequently reminded: “Scrub those dirty elbows.” Even now, close to fifty, she sometimes found herself pointing her elbows at the mirror after a shower and checking for unlikely grooves of dirt. As for the navel, her mother insisted, “There’s no such thing as a child with a clean belly button.” All the same, despite the demands for cleanliness, she’d been a caring and loving parent. Capable, Addie thought. My mom was entirely capable. She could be relied upon. My God, how I miss her. And Father somehow created a balance to all of that. He loved her, too. He missed her after she died, I know he did. Maybe he still does, even though he has a new wife. All the possibilities. Maybe Tye and I should have had children. We talked about adopting, but never did.

At that thought, Addie fought against the urge to contact Tye, to pick up the phone. Tye was aware of Sybil’s illness because Addie had informed him after the initial surgery in January. She could provide him with an update; that could be her excuse to call now. She watched her hand reach for the receiver. Willed it back.

She was on a difficult path. Headed toward—whatever lay ahead. Sybil was not going to get better. That was a certainty. Maybe, just maybe, belonging to this small group at Cassie’s would be helpful. Addie reminded herself that the others believed Sybil was dead. Too late now to correct her story, and maybe the order of events wasn’t going to matter anyway. What she was dealing with was the tragedy of Sybil losing her life. Tragedy for Sybil. Tragedy for Addie, who would lose her. Was already losing her, because Sybil was turning away, turning toward something only she could see.

But what could she tell the others in the group if she did admit that Sybil was alive? That versions of grief had been stampeding through her head during that first meeting?

Grief was complicated. People grieved when they fought with siblings, when grudges were held, when they didn’t receive an expected inheritance, when they finally understood that their childhood years could never be set right. They grieved severed relationships, marriages that broke down or were abandoned. They grieved loss of hearing, of eyesight, of damaged or missing limbs. They grieved for hundreds, thousands of reasons—as many as the human brain could invent. And what about refugees who’d recently moved to Wilna Creek? Over the past two years, fourteen Syrian families had been sponsored by local citizens. Addie was a member of one of the sponsor groups. The Syrians had been forced to leave relatives, villages, towns, their entire culture. Some admitted to grieving openly when they left the refugee camps, even though they’d lived an uncertain and dangerous existence. They had become accustomed to being in limbo. Later, they grieved all over again when they arrived in Canada, even though they were glad to be here and to be safe.