The finality of her mother’s death was still sinking in, slowly and painfully. She wandered through the labyrinth of memories. The small apartment was filled with a pleasant sort of clutter—interesting objects and of course books, furniture that had been in the family for generations, little mending projects piled here and there. It was as if Blythe had just stepped out for a moment and would return shortly. Natalie noticed an unwashed teacup in the sink, a meandering grocery list, laundry waiting to be folded and put away.

The upper apartment featured graceful old-world details. There was an unusual high-peaked ceiling under the front gable, a spot where Natalie used to lie on the antique chaise, watching the sun rise over the park. The old arched windows, hardwood floors, Gothic flourishes, and marble fireplace harkened back to the building’s origins—a saloon downstairs, and a rather high-end brothel up, with a big old-fashioned bathroom at the end.

Natalie’s mother had always had a knack for putting together lovely fabrics and textures, giving the place a bohemian vibe. The imperfect charm of the apartment had been lost on Natalie when she was young, but now she appreciated her mother’s taste and flair. The clutter—maybe not so much. She tamped down a twinge of annoyance. She did not want to feel annoyed at her mother.

When she’d rushed to the city after getting the news of the plane crash, Natalie had slept in the room she’d occupied all through her childhood, a tiny space that used to feel cozy. Since she’d left home the room had become a repository of things her mother didn’t want to bother with. The twin bed was piled with luggage that never saw any use. Her high school collection of CDs and books still occupied a shelf just as she’d left it. She had pushed aside some of the clutter and slept—badly—in her old bed.

Last week, she had not dared to venture into her mother’s room. She’d kept the door shut, fearful of the emotional storm it would cause when opened. Tonight, though, she didn’t feel like wading through the effluvia stacked in her old room. Now she was Goldilocks choosing a bed. Grandy’s former room was cluttered with plastic hospital bins and file folders of paperwork. A framed photo of May Lin hung on the wall.

She stepped into her mother’s room and nearly drowned.

The entire space was a frieze of her mother’s world. Of a moment in time. A life interrupted. The room was waiting for its occupant to return, slip on her nightgown and scuffs, settle in with her crossword and her novel. Mom was so present here, from the family pictures on the wall to the china dish of mismatched earrings on the bureau. She was always losing earrings.