I open my eyes to find Deena licking my hand as though it were coated with honey. My mother is just inside the doorway speaking with Eric. I recognize the part of her hair first—a little to the right and fringed with coppery flyaways at her temples. I wonder what I will remember about Moony when ten years have come and gone. There are the obvious things, like the color of someone’s eyes or how tall they are. But the real nuggets are the weird, little things you don’t even realize you’re noticing, like someone’s crooked incisor or the pattern of freckles on the back of their hand. With my mother, it has always been the part of her hair, the way it flops to the left in a heavy wave of auburn that used to smell like passionfruit from her shampoo. That, and the deep, throaty laugh she would give when something really tickled her—a gift courtesy of her decades-long cigarette habit.

I decide then to remember the soft pads of Moony’s fingers, which were always wrinkled as though she had spent too much time in the tub. I couldn’t choose what would stay when my mom left me at seven years old, but I can choose now. I will remember Moony’s fingers. And I will remember the wicked names she called Deena the cockapoo under her breath when she’d catch her squatting in the yard. And her lists. And the scent of Murphy’s Oil Soap, like old wood and orange peels.

I sit up, and my mother shifts her hazel eyes from Eric to me. “You’re awake,” she announces. She gives me a smile, but the skin puckers between her eyes.

“You’re observant.”

Eric calls Deena to him, tucking her up under one armpit like a clutch purse. My mother always liked Eric and Damien. They are her kind of people, colorful and unique. She would “pop over” to “catch up” with them after her visits with me. These are things my mother does; she pops and catches, as though life is one big series of dance moves. Moony would never pop. Moony would never dance.

“I should probably let you two chat,” Eric puts in. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Eric. We’re going to get out of your hair,” my mother tells him.

“Are you sure?” He makes a questioning glance in the direction of Moony’s house—our house. There are a lot of funny beliefs and superstitions floating around this state, especially where the dead are concerned.

“They’ve already taken her,” my mother reassures him. “And I stripped the bed. We only need to pack Catia’s things, and then we can hit the road. We should make New Orleans by nightfall.”

“Yeah, sure,” he chirps, happy to have his role in our family saga—however helpful—draw to a close.