It’s regrettable that our restagings haven’t been totally consistent. For example, when Setsuko number one was seven, we went snowboarding at Big Bear. She was having so much fun, gliding effortlessly along the slopes, until she had a bad spill and fractured her wrist. I wanted to create this event anew somehow, but my husband, Wyatt, expressly forbade it. Still, I comfort myself by recalling that I had my second Setsuko wear a cast around her undamaged arm for six weeks anyway. To compensate for the missing memory, I frequently have her narrate the event from start to finish and test her on the details. My hope is that if she repeats the story long enough, the fiction will become her reality.

“Tell me about the day at Big Bear,” I say. We’re overdue for a full recitation.

“We drove out of the city and up a mountain road. It was afternoon when we got to the lodge. We strapped into our boots and boards, and a ski instructor showed us some moves on a bunny hill. I fell over a bunch of times but eventually figured out how to keep my balance.”

“Fine,” I say, “but I want specifics. Use your five senses. How cold was it? What color was the snow?”

“The snow was white like Miruku but almost blue. It was really cold, so cold my toes went numb, and I had to go eat french fries and warm up inside.”

“Continue,” I reply.

“I was nervous at first, but after lunch I wasn’t nervous. I wanted to try a hard trail like the older kids. I boarded a lift to a black diamond. I was doing okay, but then I hit an icy patch. I fell and landed on my wrist. I couldn’t stand back up, it hurt so bad. Some nice men came and took me down the hill on a stretcher.”

“Well done, Setsuko,” I say. She flashes me a goofy smile, showing the gap between her two front teeth. It seems to me she always used to smile a lot more. I’ll have to correct her about that later. “I’m so proud of you, I’m going to let you have another mochi.”

She gently cups the dough and smells it in pleasure before taking a bite.

“You must be looking forward to your birthday,” I add. “You’ll be allowed to eat as much candy as you want.”

“I’m more excited for my tenth birthday,” she says under her breath, but it’s not lost on me. We’ve been restaging her parties for so many years that I will hardly know what to do when I have to organize one from scratch.

“Now go practice your instrument,” I say.

While Coco is distracted with scales on the violin, I grab Miruku, sneak out the back door, and set her in the middle of our driveway. I climb into Wyatt’s convertible and slide my key into the ignition. In the rearview mirror, I watch the cat sniffing at the ground. To psych myself up and calm my shaky nerves, I rev the engine a couple times. “It’s okay,” I say, “you’re doing this for your daughter.” The tires scream as I run over the animal with the sports car. I check my work. The pelvis and hind legs appear to be broken, but Miruku is alive, yowling in pain.