“Mom?” Alexa motioned to the spot next to her at the head of the bed, and Rebecca, who hadn’t cuddled with her daughter in who knew how long, leaned back against the headboard and put her arm around Alexa. Alexa pressed her head into her mother’s neck—it wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world for Rebecca’s neck, in truth, but she didn’t want to spoil the moment. “How long until it stops hurting, Mom?”

Rebecca thought about that for a long time. Six months? Definitely not. A year? No. Longer. There was only one real answer in the end. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

Alexa didn’t stop crying, and she didn’t say thank you or please help me through it. But she did reach over Rebecca to take a peanut butter cracker, and that was something.

87.

Alexa

Morgan wanted to go surfing one final time before sixth grade, so she asked Alexa and Rebecca to take her to Jenness Beach on the penultimate day of summer, the week after Cam’s funeral. The day was almost cruel in its perfection, a big tease for all of the kids about to ready their backpacks and sharpen their pencils.

Rebecca said, “Parking will be a nightmare.”

But Morgan persisted—she had checked the surf forecast, and the waves looked promising. So off they went, packing their stuff up in the rental car that insurance was paying for while the details of buying a replacement for the Acura got sorted out. It was the only time all summer that the three of them had spent the day together with nobody else around.

When they got their smoothies and coffees at Summer Sessions Alexa’s mother refused Alexa’s money and threw down her credit card. Alexa, feeling generous, stuffed a five in the tip jar that said “bikini fund” on it, even though she thought it was unnecessary for the surfer girls to have a bikini fund when clearly they got, like, the biggest discount ever from the Summer Sessions shop.

Alexa helped Morgan carry her board. Alexa’s mom set up the chairs and the umbrella they’d had the foresight to drop off before parking in the backup lot. Then Morgan stepped into her wet suit and presented her back to Alexa for zipping. Despite all of the ice cream she’d eaten this summer, Morgan was still very, very skinny—she was the only person Alexa knew on whom a wet suit was actually baggy. When she was zipped she turned around and faced Alexa and gave her a giant smile. The zinc she had applied to her face was uneven, making her look like a clown who’d partied too hard after last night’s circus.

“Don’t go out too far,” Alexa told her. “Be careful.”