She took a sip and said, “Nights are difficult for me.”

“I know they are.”

“I’m not as bad as I seem.”

“I know, Mom.”

It was mostly true. She never drank until the sun went down, and during the daytime, she led a fairly normal life. She had a small community of friends that managed to get her out and doing things, and Meg drove her when she needed to go to the store.

“How’s the baby?” she asked.

“Fine. Kicking a little.”

“It’s a girl. I’m sure of it.”

“We’ll find out in December.” The due date was a week before Christmas.

Colin sat on the edge of the bed. His mother pivoted in her chair and smiled at him.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure I do anything for you at all. We moved here, and I’m just sitting back and watching you crumble.”

“Everything crumbles eventually,” she said. “That’s how the world makes room for new things.”

“Maybe we should look into getting you help. Someone who comes by the house for a few hours every day.”

“You keep suggesting that,” she said. “You keep at it, and I’ll keep saying no. I don’t need a stranger in here milling about my things.” She lifted her glass and drained the rest in a gulp. “Those people are all thieves.”

“That’s just not true.”

“Shh, shh,” she scolded him. “No more talk of that tonight. I’m going to sleep.” She rose from her chair and Colin moved off the bed, allowing her to stumble into it. He thought of the lipstick smears sure to accumulate on her pillow throughout the night.

His mother pulled the covers up to her chin, closed her eyes, and soon became perfectly still, her breaths so shallow as to be unnoticeable. With her eyes closed, hair brushed, lipstick on, and arms at her side, she looked prepped for a casket viewing.

Colin tried to push the thought away but found it heavy and unyielding. He leaned down and gave his mother a peck on her forehead.

“Good night,” he whispered.

As Colin turned to leave the house and return to the comfort of his wife, his mother said, “Good night, Thomas.”

Colin stilled, unprepared to hear his father’s name, then accepting it as the next phase of his mother’s mental deterioration.

Everything crumbles.

Six

Bury, New Hampshire

“Wow, Cora.”

It’s all I can think to say as my sister lets herself in the front door of my father’s house, followed by Peter and Willow. Nine more years hasn’t aged her. Cora’s beauty is perfectly embalmed.

“Rose!” Her excited voice sounds forced, and as I move in to hug her, I vow not to be so cynical, that maybe she is happy I’m here. But if she feels how I do, then she’s a wonderful bullshit artist. Nine years is a long time for sisters to go without seeing each other. Now it feels too short.