“Anxiety? Really? I wish you’d told me,” she said to her mom in the mirror. “You should’ve said something. I thought we told each other everything.”

She brushed her teeth and got into her mother’s bed. It still had the mom smell, familiar and evocative of the days of her childhood, when she used to skitter into the room in the morning and jump in bed for a snuggle. Then she reopened the novel on the nightstand. She and her mother used to play book games. “The first sentence on page seventy-two dictates your plan for the next day. Or your deepest secret.”

Page 72 of the current book said, The photographer’s darkroom was the only place she could clearly see, the place where she felt most competent and in control.

After reading for a couple of hours, Natalie set aside the book and went to the medicine cabinet. One tablet as needed for insomnia.

Thanks, Mom.

There were decisions to be made. That was Natalie’s first thought after dragging herself up from the depths of Ambien-induced slumber. Then, of course, fresh grief came rushing in like the morning tide, followed by the dangerous undertow of regret, sneaking in to snatch her out to sea and drown her. She wished she could rewind her life to the moment she’d asked her mother to come up to Archangel. Why, oh why had she invited her mom to the stupid company party?

She got up and took a bath, sinking into a raft of lavender-scented bubbles. She read bits of the dementia book, which made her feel frightened and overwhelmed. Then she dressed and went downstairs to check on her grandfather. He was sound asleep, his hearing aids in a cup on his nightstand. She tiptoed out and turned on the espresso machine in the shop’s coffee cubby. When she was little, that had been her job. To get dressed quickly and run downstairs and turn on the coffee machine so the water would heat up to 195°F, the optimal temperature for making a perfect morning shot. Regular customers had their own personalized mugs on a rack above the espresso machine.

The soft hiss of the machine, the droning grind of the beans in the mill, the rich, fecund aroma of coffee evoked all the mornings of her childhood. Now the rattle of the espresso machine was a lonely sound. It would not summon her yawning mother from upstairs. There would be no morning glory muffin from the bakery across the way and no joint perusal of the Examiner.

Natalie drew a shot, using a promotional mug from some publisher or other that directed her to find her dreams. The book being promoted was called Swim Story, with the slogan Find Your Lane. Find Your Dream.