She shakes her head. Her brow closes in on itself. “No, I knew the father then. He was…before your dad. He wasn’t a good man. In the end, we were better off.”

I notice she used the word “man.” Not “boy” or “guy” or “kid.” It seems out of place for how young she was in the photo. A lump fills my throat. How bad was he that she believed his child was better off dead? “Still, it’s kinda weird, you know?”

She is slowly starting to wash dishes, but her movements are stiff and robotic. “What is?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Just thinking that I might have had a big brother or sister.”

Her lips twitch into a smile on one side.

“Guess I really am your youngest then.”

She doesn’t seem to register what I’m saying anymore. She keeps rubbing her hands together under the water. After a few minutes, she stops and wipes them on her pants.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Ever since Fortune’s Gate, I’ve been waiting for the right moment to slip this in, the right conversation. Now that I have her on memory road and talking about cards, this seems ideal.

“Sure, baby.” Her voice is thin, like runny paint. I’m not sure how engaged she is anymore.

“The deck you gave me—the one I brought from Moony’s—where did you get it?” I cross my fingers under my leg.

“I found it,” she says softly. “A long time ago.” Her eyes are staring into the distance, trained on something only she can see.

“Where did you—”

“I’m tired. I think I’m gonna go lie down.” She cuts me off as if I hadn’t even started speaking again.

“Oh. Okay.” I watch her walk slowly to her room and close the door, feeling guilty that my digging has uncovered her pain.

She doesn’t come back out for the rest of the night.

XXIII.

FOUR DAYS PASS AND I AM STARTING TO WORRY. She shuffles out to use the bathroom every morning and night, and she makes her way to the kitchen for food once or twice a day. Small things only, like a banana or half of a peanut butter sandwich. But mostly she just sleeps, hour after hour behind the closed door to her room. When I question her late afternoon on the fifth day, she claims she has a virus.

“What kind?”

“Hmm?”

“Your virus, Mom. Like a stomach bug or what?”

“Right. A stomach bug,” she parrots, filling a glass with water and grabbing a snack-size bag of pretzels.

“Funny,” I say to her back as she turns toward her room again. “Because you aren’t using the bathroom much for someone with a stomach bug.”

But she just waves her hand at me muttering, “I’ll be fine,” and closes the door with a soft click behind her.