He sighs and settles a little deeper into the chair. “You know, when you were a girl, you didn’t like to sleep either. You weren’t afraid of the dark—nothing like that,” he says with a hint of paternal pride, “but you always insisted someone be here with you. That you should have had brothers or sisters, and since we—your mother and I—were depriving you, one of us had to sit with you instead until you fell asleep.” His voice is amused, but a note of sadness creeps in.

I glance at him. That’s not entirely how I remember our nighttime routine. Instead, I remember waking to find the door open, him peering in to make sure I was asleep in my bed, still breathing, not blue faced, or abducted, or whatever he feared might happen in the middle of the night.

He yawns and settles deeper into the chair. “If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll stay just a little longer.”

I mean to tell him a third time that I’m fine and to please go to bed, but somewhere between thinking and speaking, the words drift away into that unidentifiable river of sleep and I’m enveloped in its tide.

Eleven

Friday, December 6, 8:00 A.M.

When I wake it takes me a moment to realize where I am. A dark crack runs the width of the ceiling above my head. The amber light streams through the white curtains at the wrong angle, and the framed photographs on the dresser are eerily all of me: There I am age three or so, pedaling a tricycle, a look of grim determination on my face. Seven, gap-toothed and grinning half-submerged in a pile of fall leaves. Sixteen, hair done into an ungodly updo, and Craig by my side looking three shades of uncomfortable in his father’s suit.

Truman told me not to come in the day after Thanksgiving. I’ve been at my parents’ a full week, twiddling my thumbs, and waiting for my phone to ring.

I hear the slow exhale of a city bus and the grinding stop of a garbage truck. The dark crack in the ceiling yawns, waiting until I close my eyes again to swallow me whole.

I have only a handful of my own clothes. A pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts my mother discovered in the dryer when she went by my house with the insurance inspector. We’re roughly the same size, and she’s hung a few blouses on the back of my closet door. I’m not sure whether she crept in this morning while I slept or they’ve been there since last night, but don’t have the energy to think on it further. I opt for a pair of my own ripped jeans and a blouse long enough to cover my arms.