Deanna at Seaside had been leaving me weary, exasperated voicemails, whereas Marlene at Gorsebrook kept patiently, breezily “checking in” via email every now and then. My affinities were slowly shifting. It was hard not to like Marlene better for the simple psychology of the fact that she seemed so much less desperate than Deanna — playing hard to get, the aloof popular girl. Yet intellectually I knew it was all very well for Marlene — she didn’t even have a bed for Kelli, she was just lining us up for the future, whereas Deanna was likely besieged by inquiries about her available spot, and couldn’t keep it open indefinitely.

So I needed to decide, or else Deanna would decide for me. But I hadn’t decided.

Sitting across from Jessica, all these thoughts flashed through my head in a single, panicked blaze, like the instant you light a match when it flares, then settles. And then I pushed the panic aside as I’d been doing all month long.

“I let Kelli go a long time ago,” I told Jessica. “I visited her and Mom, like, once a year. I haven’t been involved in her life to this extent since I was teenager. My mother and I fought about Kelli all the time and I told her I didn’t want Kelli to take over my whole life, because when you care for Kelli she just does. I love her, but I can’t — I’ve just never been able to imagine giving my existence over to Kelli the way my mother did. Disappearing myself the way she did.”

Jessica squinted. “I never thought of your mother as disappeared. She always seemed larger than life to me.”

“But she was a larger-than-life mother. A larger-than-life caregiver. Whoever she was before that — I don’t even know. She got rid of that person.”

“Maybe that was her choice.”

I studied Jessica a moment. Either she was understanding me completely or not understanding me at all. “It was,” I said. “It was a hundred percent her choice. But I’m not her. I don’t have it in me.”

Jessica shook her head and smiled like I was being ridiculous. “Stop beating up on yourself.”

I was startled. I didn’t think I’d been beating up on myself. I’d thought I was being sort of blandly honest. Maybe Jessica’s misconception had to do with the fact that I was still grief-struck. Maybe every word I uttered about my mother was coming across with a sad, despairing cast that I wasn’t even aware of.

“I’m just telling you the truth,” I said.

“You are self-flagellating,” said Jessica. “That’s my therapist’s word,” she added with an air of apology.

“I mean, we’re both Catholic girls, right, you and me? He sees the Catholic stuff coming out in me all the time and points it out. So I’m super-aware of it now. In myself and others. I know what self-flagellation looks like, believe me.”

“What Catholic stuff?” I said.

“You know, guilt,” said Jessica. “The cosmic kind, the storm cloud hanging over your head everywhere you go. The, the . . . looking for penance in all the wrong places, if you know what I mean. Denying our own needs. Seeking to suffer.”