Diya used to live in the back room, Trey and I in the front one, and we used the third room for storage. Then Trey and I had broken up, and a few days later, Diya and I switched places. Like replacing a plug-in air freshener when you wanted a different scent.

I was too tired to think about it.

I was tired of thinking about it.

I soaked in a long shower, then collapsed onto my wrinkled cotton sheets.

I woke five criminally short hours later to my phone ringing.

“Your grandmother’s doctor just called.” My mother sounded squeaky, and before my brain processed her words, I thought the sound was weird because my battery was dying. But then my brain caught up, and my heart went squeaky next. Nothing good ever started with The doctor called. I braced.

“Violet had another stroke overnight. I can’t sit through the plane ride. Can you fly back to New York?”

“I’ll book the first flight.” I scrambled off the bed and tripped over my shoes. “Did you talk to her? What did she say? How is she?”

“She’s not conscious. When you get there, talk to Dr. Gonzales,” Mom told me.

Dr. Gonzales had no encouraging news I could pass on to Mom when I called her from the elevator on my way to the third floor. She asked a dozen questions, but I could only tell her what I’d been told downstairs. “No significant change.”

Violet’s room had been transformed into a hospital room, with a high-tech hospital bed and monitors and IV stands. Machines beeped around her, like robots communicating with each other. It didn’t sound like they had anything good to say.

I moved closer to the bed. With the tubes and wires and mask, I could hardly tell it was Violet. My chest hurt, as if I were breathing in crushed razor blades with every breath.

The stupid guardrail was up. I turned it down and sat on the edge of the mattress. “It’s me. I’m here. If you open your eyes, I’ll bring you mango pudding.”

I took her hand, pictured the trauma in her brain, and willed the cells to repair themselves. “You can’t leave me.” I caressed her blue veins with my thumb. “I told Diya and Trey I was moving out. The business might go under. I want your advice on a hundred issues.” I was trying to outbid Death, which one of us needed her more. “Probably two hundred. And you need to tell me about Van Gogh.”

Movement at the door caught my eye. “Mrs. Yang.”

“Oh, Emsley.” She inched in, half slumped over her walker, moving even more slowly than usual. When she reached me, she gave me a one-armed hug.

We struggled to work up a smile for each other’s sake, but neither of us succeeded. I took my bag off the recliner so she could sit.