45.

Mid-1990. She isn’t breathing. Her face is chalky. She lies on the queen-sized bed, atop the ratty green quilt. Just like thirteen years ago, when Audrey was expelled into the world.

Her right hand rests on her belly. The left hand dangles over the mattress edge. She went for a nap. The nap has taken her away. Naps always take her away . . . is this different?

Morning light saturates the gauzy drapes, provides fine detail. McKenna, from the doorway, absorbs. Misty’s lips show striations of dryness. Chapstick would help. McKenna checks her pockets. No luck. McKenna steps close, leans in. Misty’s nostrils are different sizes. The nostrum is bent to the left. Her eyebrows—not arched. Rainbows. Thin. Expressive. McKenna never noticed those eyebrows before. Did she? She never, not once, actually saw Mom’s eyebrows.

A brown mole on her jaw line. Bare feet, the toenails untrimmed, uncolored. Eyes closed. A doll.

Will she wake when her arm is touched? McKenna reaches in. . . .

Two paramedics arrive. Later, two men from the funeral home.

Murray stands in the corner, smoking and smoking and smoking. The left side of his Hanson Mold collar is popped. Again and again he touches his face, as if to confirm that it’s there. But his fingers, once they arrive, are unsure. They pull at his cheeks, scratch his nose, squeeze a lip, tap a forehead. In a soft voice, he answers the paramedic’s questions. He looks small and inconsequential beside other uniformed men.

The men act as if they’re afraid to disturb the dead. There’s no sound but Audrey’s wails from her room next door. Toby is with her. In a few hours, inconsolable, Audrey will eat her bed.

McKenna leans against a wall, sinks into it. The wall is a throat, the soft red inside of a throat. The air is soft. The light is soft. Life is hazy and not unpleasant.

As the two men from the funeral home unzip the black canvas bag and place Misty inside it, she opens her eyes. Blinks twice. Stretches her arms, yawns deeply, casts a sleepy gaze around the room. Finds McKenna and waves.

“Bye-bye, sweetie,” she says.

At nine the next morning, Murray finds Audrey asleep on the bare wooden floor of her room. She’s surrounded by empty boxes that had been gathering dust beneath her bed for five years—Barbie Dream Home; Draw’rifc Easel and Paint Set; Mister Microphone.

“Where . . .” Murray begins, scanning.

“No fucking way,” Toby says, muscling his way into the room.

McKenna peers from the hallway.

Audrey has never eaten anything of this size before.

“Are you okay?” Murray says. He lowers to one knee. His eyes flit and shimmer. He touches Audrey’s shoulder, his fingers live wires. “Sweetie, what happened to your bed?”

Audrey blinks, sits up. “I got rid of it. I needed a new one.”

“I guess you won’t be having breakfast,” Toby laughs.

Audrey, thirteen years old, doesn’t mourn. Not conventionally. Certain touchy-feely counselors would probably argue that she was behaving like a “normal” teenager. In the days following the funeral, she is brusque. She doesn’t smile; she d oesn’t frown. Either of these would show weakness. She crutches herself around the house in full-scowl-mode. She hates, actively. Hates the furniture, the trinkets, the appliances, the weather, the clocks, her family, the air. Perhaps she has always despised these things. Perhaps the only person she ever loved is now buried in a cemetery near the Grand River. Perhaps with Misty gone, Audrey is now free to make her feelings known.

Murray does his best “Dad” impersonation. He implements “daily meetings.” These are after-dinner discussions designed to help everyone get their feelings out, to talk about the loss, to remember Misty, to “re-inject joy into this house hold.”

Even Grandma Pencil is encouraged to come, encouraged to pray for Misty’s soul. “Because that’s what you do, Annabelle,” Murray says.

He’s being so polite, so diplomatic, so accommodating. And it’s the worst mistake he’ll ever make.

At Grandma’s urging, McKenna gets a referral and goes to see a specialist, a dietician.

“A girl your age should weigh one-thirty, on average,” the doctor says. “You’re ninety-four pounds. Your throat looks like a lobster. It’s a darn good thing you came in.”

McKenna doesn’t tell the doctor about the chew-swallow-upchuck, chew-swallow-upchuck. After all, it’s not any of the eating disorders they’ve warned her about.

“Lots of stress lately,” she explains. She recites the list she’s rehearsed: Mom passed away; recently graduated high school; boy troubles; social awkwardness; trouble sleeping. “I get nervous. I feel nauseous. I have reflux.”

“Do you ever make yourself throw up?” the doctor asks. “For any reason?”

“Nothing I eat ever leaves my mouth,” McKenna assures him.

A multi-vitamin is prescribed, as well as a high-protein shake and some pills “to ease your anxiety.” Also a referral to see a woman who specializes in eating disorders. “I’m not saying that’s what’s going on, but there’s no shame in making an appointment to talk.”

McKenna thanks the doctor, goes home, and stands in front of the bathroom mirror. She resolves to eat like a normal person.

No more of this sickness. Mom can see everything now. Even inside my mouth.

Well, she tried.

Grandma Pencil invites her friends to the daily meetings.

“They’re designed for the family, Annabelle,” Murray is overheard whispering when she shows up with nuns in tow.

“I understand,” Grandma replies. “Would anyone like veggies and dip?”

The living room is dim and cool. The nuns and Grandma occupy the sofa. Audrey lies on the floor, her stumps raised in the air, bicycling. Toby reclines in the mustard recliner. McKenna sits cross-legged on the carpet. Murray stands at the far end of the room. He distributes photo albums unearthed from the attic.

“This was Misty,” he says. “The mother we loved. The daughter. The wife.”

“I have homework,” Audrey yawns.

Toby flips pages. “Woah! Look how heavy you used to be, Kenny.”

The nuns, Sister Maximillian and Sister Pauline (a new one), politely peruse an album without comment.

Grandma Pencil forces a fistful of pretzels into her mouth.

“I think it’s important that we remember the Misty in these pictures,” Murray says, tapping his palm for emphasis.

“You apparently want me to fail my English test,” Audrey mumbles.

“She would’ve sacrificed anything for you kids.”

McKenna pretends to look at the pictures in front of her. In reality, she scrutinizes Audrey. She sees the disgust Audrey flashes at the ceiling, and, occasionally, at Murray.

“Is that you, Dad?” Toby exclaims. “God, you look like you’re twelve.”

“That’s our wedding day.”

“No shit. I thought the tux was for a rodeo.”

“Mind your mouth,” Grandma Pencil says.

“I always do, Grandma. I mind Tracy Howerton’s mouth, too. And Jessica Bly’s.”

Audrey snickers. So worldly, so mature. Does she even understand his comment? How could she? She’s never dated, never had friends who dated. Right? Not yet, not yet.

The nuns are miming rigor mortis, lips drawn tight. Their nostrils exhale musty lung into the close room. The bowl of dill dip on the coffee table glistens. On the mantle, the Sears-Roebuck faux-wood clock ticks. Audrey pops a gum bubble.

It’s time.

“Mom’s in Heaven, isn’t she, Dad?” McKenna asks.

Murray swigs at his can of Pabst. Licks his lips. He studies McKenna, assessing the tone and sincerity of her question. He seems to decide that it’s above-board. She’s always above-board. In fact, she is the board. That’s what they always said at school. Carpenter’s dream and all.

“You know I’ve never been a person of faith,” Murray says. He nods, agreeing with himself. “But yes, I believe Misty’s there. Don’t know why.” Manages a tired smile. Eyes are rimmed red.

(Poor Dad. He was collateral damage. But why didn’t you ever confess this to him?)

The nuns fidget as if the cushions are getting hot. Grandma’s eyes shift in her head. She glances at the penguins. They read her glance, and then make with some holy thumb-twiddling. Audrey, smelling controversy, props herself onto her elbows.

“Why wouldn’t Mom be in Heaven, genius?” Toby asks Mc-Kenna.

(From this vantage point, Toby is one enormous socked foot. Two gaping holes at the ball, flesh eyes.)

“Because there isn’t a Heaven!” Audrey says, cheerfully. “Right, Dad?”

Murray frowns. Says nothing. Push has come to shove, and he seems toppled.

“The Catholic teachings,” Grandma Pencil ventures, “are clear as glass.”

Sister Pauline, new blood at St. Monica’s, makes a noise in her throat. A winch being turned. “Perhaps,” she says, “this is a discussion best left for the adults.”

“Nonsense,” Murray says, his eyes finally showing recognition. He’s like Audrey but with a less keen sense of smell. After a momentary lapse, he’s back on his game. He has caught the whiff of controversy, and it smells religious. Even Misty’s tragic death isn’t enough to shut off this primal instinct. “Misty and I always treated the kids like grown-ups.”

There’s blood dripping from Grandma’s mouth, she’s biting her tongue so hard.

“And now they practically are grown-ups,” Murray continues. Gazes lovingly at his kids, the poor dolt. “Anything I can hear, they can hear, too.”