I considered this as Denise took another sip of her beer, nodding to a guy in a baseball cap as he pushed past us. “I guess I don’t really know that side of her,” I said. “I mean, we’ve been out of touch for a while.”

“I know,” she said. Then she quickly added, “I mean, she talked about you a lot in college.”

“She did?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, all the time,” she said, emphatic. “She really—”

“Denise!” someone yelled, and she turned, looking over the shoulder of the guy beside us. “I need to get that number from you, remember?”

“Right,” she said, then smiled at me apologetically. “One sec. I’ll be right back. . . .”

I nodded as she walked away, wondering what she’d been about to say. Thinking this, I scanned the crowd until I spotted Cora standing just outside the kitchen door with Charlotte. She was smiling, looking much happier than the last time I’d seen her. At some point she’d pulled her hair back, making her look even younger, and she had on a soft-looking sweater, a glass of wine in her hand. Here I’d just assumed all these people were here because of Jamie, but of course my sister could have changed in the years we’d been apart. She has her own life now, my mom had told me again and again. This was it, and I wondered what that must be like, to actually get to start again, forget the world you knew before and leave everything behind. Maybe it had even been easy.

Easy. I had a flash of myself, just a week earlier, coming home from a long night at Commercial to the darkness of the yellow house. How much had I thought about it—my home or my school or anything from before—in the last few days? Not as much as I should have. All this time, I’d been so angry Cora had forgotten me, just wiped our shared slate clean, but now I was doing the same thing. Where was my mother? Was it really this easy, once you escaped, to just not care?

I suddenly felt tired, overwhelmed, everything that had happened in the last week hitting me at once. I stepped back from the crowd, slipping inside. As I climbed the stairs, I was glad for the enclosed space of my room, even if it, too, was temporary like everything else.

I just need to sleep, I told myself, kicking off my shoes and sinking down onto the bed. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the singing, doing all I could to push myself into the darkness and stay there until morning.

When I woke up, I wasn’t sure how long I’d been asleep, hours or just minutes. My mouth was dry, my arm cramped from where I’d been lying on it. As I rolled over, stretching out, my only thought was to go back to the dream I’d been having, which I couldn’t remember, other than it had been good, in that distant, hopeful way unreal things can be. I was closing my eyes, trying to will myself back, when I heard some laughter and clapping from outside. The party was still going on.

When I went out onto my balcony, I saw the crowd had dwindled to about twenty people or so. The banjo player was gone, and just Jamie remained, plucking a few notes as people chatted around him.

“It’s getting late,” Charlotte, who’d put on a sweater over her dress, said. She stifled a yawn with her hand. “Some of us have to be up early tomorrow.”

“It’s Sunday,” Denise, sitting beside her, said. “Who doesn’t sleep in on Sunday?”

“One last song,” Jamie said. He glanced around, looking behind him to a place I couldn’t see from my vantage point. “What do you think?” he said. “One song?”

“Come on,” Denise pleaded. “Just one.”

Jamie smiled, then began to play. It was cold outside, at least to me, and I turned back to my room, feeling a yawn of my own rising up, ready to go back to bed. But then I realized there was something familiar about what he was playing; it was like it was tugging at some part of me, faint but persistent, a melody I thought was mine alone.

" ’I am an old woman, named after my mother....’”

The voice was strong and clear, and also familiar, but in a distant way. Similar to the one I knew, and yet different—prettier and not as harsh around the edges.

"’My old man is another child that’s grown old....’”

It was Cora. Cora, her voice pure and beautiful as it worked its way along the notes we’d both heard so many times, the song more than any other that made me think of my mother. I thought of how strange I’d felt earlier, thinking we’d both just forgotten everything. But this was scary, too, to be so suddenly connected, prompting a stream of memories—us in our nightgowns, her reaching out for me, listening to her breathing, steady and soothing, from across a dark room—rushing back too fast to stop.

I felt a lump rise in my throat, raw and throbbing, but even as the tears came I wasn’t sure who I was crying for. Cora, my mom, or maybe, just me.

Chapter Six

I could not prove it scientifically. But I was pretty sure Gervais Miller was the most annoying person on the planet.

First, there was the voice. Flat and nasal with no inflection, it came from the backseat, offering up pronouncements and observations. “Your hair’s matted in the back,” he’d tell me, when I hadn’t had adequate time with the blow-dryer. Or when I pulled a shirt last-minute from the laundry: “You stink like dryer sheets.” Attempts to ignore him by pretending to study only resulted in a running commentary on my academic prowess, or lack thereof. “Intro to Calculus? What are you, stupid?” or “Is that a B on that paper?” And so on.