Was it a final display of rage, of sorrow, the force that lifted her up at last? The sublime ecstasy of pain? Did she finally find that feeling of control, her eyes closed, as one ground to pieces, only to lose it, because yes, beauty, it hurts us, lose her grip, like Niobe, all tears, and fall to her death?

That’s how it is, she’d said. The heaviness, the black sand. Did she slip free from all that weight, all that want, for a moment and rise, and did it rush back into her organs and bring her down like a thrown stone?

Was it belief that raised her, finally? Is there any way it might have been enlightenment, real and actual?

Or did she just jump?

Because of what I told her?

17

Here’s a version: Serena was nothing but a snake oil salesman, a cheap magician, silk tie and spit-slicked eyebrows. It was all a trick, a series of mirrors, a set of false bottoms—even the end, her grand finale. The wonder show of the universe! Key-mouthed Houdini herself. The Great Serena. Watch her beat the Devil, one night only. She wasn’t looking for enlightenment. She wasn’t looking to avenge her mother’s death. She believed in nothing. She was merely whiling away the hours, the days she was forced to spend at the Center, doing her best to keep herself entertained. Reading her books. Working out her old grudges. Pulling us like rabbits out of hats, coaxing us through hoops, starving us, dangling us in the air, on strings oh so cleverly hidden against the black backdrop, as we squealed and shit and dove desperately for her breast, and the audience clapped and clapped.

Here’s a version: my father loved me. He just loved his religion more. And here’s a version: he was right. He made the right choice.

Serena had said she would find out where my father had gone, whatever holy place had been next. Maybe she had forgotten. Maybe she had found out, and kept it from me. Maybe she had never intended to help me at all. Now it was too late. When I finally mentioned him to Janet, she furrowed her brow. “Why didn’t you say?” she said. “This place keeps files, you know. Forwarding addresses. Credit card information. We’ve had the key to the office for years. How do you think Laurel knows everything about everyone?” The key to the office: where Harriet had worked all summer, if only I’d trusted her. If only I’d chosen her. I might have asked Janet to take me there, but we both knew it didn’t matter anymore.