A police officer was standing in front of her then, saying something, more words that couldn’t be computed by her brain. She stepped around him and moved toward her son. She touched his body and was struck by how cold he was. She took off her jacket and draped it over him, but that wasn’t enough to warm him, and so she draped him with her body too. The police officer was still speaking to her, a hand on her shoulder, but she couldn’t understand any of it, couldn’t move her body away from her little boy. In that moment of disbelief suspended: police radios crackling in the background, the pool gate clanging, heavy footsteps treading around her. If she didn’t open her eyes, if she just held Prem’s hand in hers, if she kept singing his favorite song as she did when he was sick or had trouble sleeping, this moment would pass, and she could open her eyes to see her smiling, lively boy again. It would pass.

And for a second, she thought it did. The moment was interrupted by a cry, childlike and helpless, calling to her. Mama. Mama! She pulled back from Prem’s body and called his name. His face remained unchanged, his eyes unopened, his body unmoving. But someone was calling her. She turned around to see Karina, running toward her from the house. The sight of her daughter in that moment was confounding, disappointing. How could this be?

Jaya stayed in bed until the realization suffused the sheets surrounding her, and finally she had to leave her bed to escape it. That was the only reason she ever left her bed: when it became a haunted space. Then, she turned to the shower, her no-man’s land between sleep and waking, where the steady stream of water flowing onto her face and body washed away the haunting. When the hot water ran out, she occupied herself with all the meaningless rituals everyone was so desperate for her to resume: dressing, putting food in her mouth, receiving people. The longer she stayed in bed, the fewer hours she had to spend doing these things. At the end of the day, she returned upstairs to the freshly made bed, which showed no signs of the haunting. She could slip one of those small white caplets into her mouth, slide between the sheets, and wait for the sleep to take her again.

* * *

Jaya saw the way they looked at her: at the memorial service, at the temple, when they came to the house bearing fruit baskets and covered dishes and potted orchids. The pity—that was universal. They looked at her as if they were surprised she was still here on earth, still able to stand and walk and breathe. I am surprised too, she wanted to tell them. She was surprised every morning when she woke up. How could it be that the very being she had given life to, whom she had carried in her own body and manifested into the world, could be gone and yet she was still here? It was wrong. Jaya knew it and she saw in others’ eyes: they knew it too. Often, they did not even meet her eyes, or they looked away when they did, as if her grief might be contagious.