“If she’s paying attention, she knows,” Grams says.

“That’s what I’m asking.” I scrape my fork across my plate. “Is she paying attention?”

“Corrie,” Grams says, and she reaches across the table to hold my hand. I let her even though it makes me feel like a baby. “Where is this coming from? Is this what you talked about in your session?”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to ask her about her session,” Dad mumbles, a little bit of a teasing tone in his voice. I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood.

I know I should stop talking. Talking about Mom is always trouble.

“I just want to know that she misses Mabel. That she’s sad about what happened to Mabel.” I stare at both of their faces. “Don’t you think she should be? Mabel’s mom should miss her. Mabel deserves that.” It’s only when I see a teardrop on my plate that I realize I’m crying again.

“Honeybee,” Grams says, and she squeezes my hand tight. “Mabel is missed. She’s missed by me and your dad and, most of all, she’s missed by you. That’s more than enough.”

Dad’s lips move, but he doesn’t say anything. I catch Grams giving Dad one of her sideways looks.

“Grams is right,” he says slowly. “But more importantly, she’s loved by so many people. The love is even bigger than the missing.”

I guess he’s right, but sometimes the missing feels so big in my heart that I forget what the love even felt like.

Twelve

Quinn

Dear Parker,

Occasionally when I picture the wormhole appearing, I imagine it looking a lot like your bedroom door. You had that sign that said “Do Not Open” in big ugly letters.

I should’ve opened it.

I’m trying to open it now.

I hope it isn’t too late.

Your sister,

Quinn

When the alarm sounds, I’m in art class, sketching a pumpkin on the black butcher paper that Mrs. Euclid has draped across the long library tables. Our project this month is making decorations for the fall festival.

Mrs. Euclid is the school librarian and the art teacher. I think it’s pretty cool that she’s able to wear two hats like that, but other people complain that it’s because our school doesn’t have the money to afford a real art teacher.

But Mrs. Euclid is real enough for me.

“Okay. You all know what to do,” Mrs. Euclid says as the loud wail of the siren fills up the room. I try to curb the panic building inside of me by reminding myself it’s only a drill, but it doesn’t work.

We slide out of our chairs and head to the middle row of shelves. It’s the place in the library that’s the farthest from any doors or windows. We clump together. Those of us in the back of the clump have our spines pressed against the spines of books. The kids in front of us press their backs into our knees. Some kids whisper while Mrs. Euclid is away, securing the room. I stay quiet. Like we’re supposed to. I’m not someone who can afford to break the rules.