But my sister’s not in the room. She’s not in the bathroom. Instead I find my sketchbook in the middle of her bed, open to the landscape I did today, the one of the beach and the two figures.

Mom and Billy. Who knows what else she saw in that sketchbook.

And my sister is gone. Still. Again. Perpetually.

Chapter 32

32

I don’t remember much concerning my parents’ (my original parents’) divorce. I was five when it happened. Abby’s age now. I hadn’t even been aware that my mom and dad were unhappy with one another, although I did know that they yelled a lot.

I thought that’s just what grown-ups did.

They told Afton and me separately. Afton first. They left me in the playroom with a new dollhouse I’d received for my birthday, Ruthie’s idea, I’m sure. I was playing obliviously, moving tiny wooden people around a meticulously decorated miniature three-story model while they sat my sister down in another room. When they were satisfied that she understood what they were trying to tell her, they swapped us and brought me into their bedroom, where I immediately knew something was off because I wasn’t normally allowed in their bedroom. It had the quiet, austere presence of a church to me, a place I entered without shoes so I wouldn’t sully the cream-colored carpet. The air smelled like sandalwood, although of course I didn’t know it was sandalwood at the time, just a bright, piercing scent that to this day makes me summon up the word:

Divorce.

We all sat on the upholstered bench at the end of my parents’ king-sized bed. Mom’s face was a picture of calm, like one of those masks from a party store, completely expressionless.

Dad’s face was red. His eyes were also red. Bloodshot. Puffy. His voice shook as he tried to tell me that he was moving out. Finally he stopped trying, and Mom stepped in.

I didn’t get it. Not really. But I nodded like I did.

Then they brought me back to the playroom, where Afton was waiting. Her expression was set exactly like Mom’s. I can still see it in my mind’s eye. If I did a drawing, I would title it Determined.

It’s wild to think she was only seven years old.

Mom and Dad were out in the hall, yelling again.

Afton took my hand. “It’s good,” she said.

“It feels bad,” I said.

She shook her head. “They don’t love each other anymore.”

That was a terrifying thought, that people can love you, and then they can stop.