Her smile slips, as I knew it would. For someone who spends all day in her studio, a whole day is too much to spend with anyone else. This is her refuge, her space that she’ll share for a moment or two, but not longer than that. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want to, or if she really can’t. I only know this is how it’s been since Maisie died.

“I love that you want to know more about my work,” she says with a dip in her voice. “But…”

“Dad says he wants me to shadow him that day.” I make a face like I’m unsure, ignoring the dull pain blossoming like a flower across my rib cage. I can’t seem to stop it, even though I planned this.

“Dad?” She grabs hold of the idea. “You can’t hurt his feelings, Lulu. He misses you so much. I don’t want to be selfish and keep you all to myself. You go with him while he teaches. Remember how much you loved it when you were little?”

“I guess.” I force a smile.

Her eyes drift to the canvas.

“I guess it might be fun to go to school with Dad,” I say, and her eyes snap back to me, her shoulders dropping in relief.

“Yes, that would be so good for you both.”

“But what about Clay?” I say in a monotone. “Gram has lunch with her friends tomorrow. I was supposed to babysit.”

Mom waves a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll paint when he naps. It’ll be fine.”

I hug her, clinging harder than I should. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll tell Dad and Gram.”

She pats me absentmindedly, her attention no longer mine. I try to hold on to the feeling of success I had just a few seconds before, but it hurts even more with the contrasting memory next to it. Young Mom holding me tight and refusing to let me go.

When present Mom walks to her painting and picks up the brush, I know it’s my cue to leave. I pretend to go, but I leave the door open a crack, just enough to peek into a world I’m no longer part of.

Sometimes I want to hate her for how she shuts me out, but my heart won’t let me. I still want to talk to her about boys, to giggle with her like I see Olivia and her mom do.

But Gram never turns away from me. I race down the stairs, my half-formed plan spiraling in a tornado of fear. If I can’t cure her, who will see me?

10. Golden Gate Corpus Callosum