The deep red notes filled the old house with echoes and made the shadows seem even darker.

I let the outside air dissolve into the familiar closed-in scent of old wood and ninety-degree days. I leaned my body against the banister that curved up the stairs, trying to wipe the last trace of the world from my skin before I entered the white room where Mother hid.

The only time that Mother ever looked connected to the earth was when she was playing her cello. She always seemed so calm when she practiced. Her hair was unfastened and loose around her shoulders. Her arms were relaxed for once, her spine straight, her two bare feet planted on the floor like the roots of a tree.

I climbed into the four-poster bed we shared and lay on my stomach with my chin in my hands to watch how the music changed her, smoothing the lines of her face, making her breathe easy and slow. Mother said that the Prelude from Bach’s first suite is the most beautiful piece of music ever written for cello. It’s filled with echoes, one voice singing lullabies to itself. The line glides from deep low notes to middle to high, sighing like a swan gliding over waves.

She raised her bow and let the last note shimmer in the stale air.

I sighed when it finally disappeared because the world seemed emptier without it.

Mother looked at me and smiled. She put her cello and bow down and then scuttled back to the safety of our bed.

I made room for her.

“I like that piece,” I told her. “It makes me feel so peaceful.”

“It always has,” she said. “I used to play it when I was pregnant with you. Used to quiet you right down. Kicking stopped. Stirring stopped. And you’d just kind of float in the darkness, listening.”

She motioned for me to turn onto my side so she could hug me from behind the way she always loved to do. When I was little, I loved it too. I was the baby and she was the mommy, and we were safe together in our nest. But lately we hadn’t been fitting together so well.

My stomach growled. We both heard it.

I held still and tried not to breathe.

“Mother,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“Mother,” I said, louder. “Is there anything to eat?”

I scrambled to my knees and looked down at her. She was still curled onto her side, holding herself now instead of me. I could see the planes of her face, the hollow of her neck, the long arms and legs jutting beneath her white nightgown.

How long had it been since she’d eaten?

My stomach growled again.

“Can you make me something?” I asked.

My voice echoed strangely in our little room.

“I don’t think there’s much food down there,” said Mother. “But Uncle Toby comes with groceries on Saturday. I made him a list. Guess what’s on it!”

Suddenly I was a little girl naming all the foods I loved.

“Popsicles?”

“Yup.”

“And strawberries?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And cheddar cheese and oranges and hot dogs and yogurt?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Mother reached up and touched the tip of my nose. “And cold cuts and yellow apples and pickles and rye bread and salami and all sorts of yummy things for my baby girl to make so she can eat all she wants.”

“Like grilled cheese?”

“Of course,” said Mother. “You know how to make grilled cheese. It’s easy.”

“But I’m hungry now.”

Mother’s face looked strained on the pillow. “Oh, honey,” she said.

“Can’t we just go down and look?”

She hesitated. Then she made herself smile. “Sure, we can go down and look,” she said. “I think there might be a can of soup somewhere. I can walk down the stairs with you. But you know I don’t like going into the kitchen, June. The kitchen’s so close to the door. Anything can come through the cracks. And we could get very sick, June. I don’t want us to get very sick.”

“I know,” I said. “But I don’t think anything bad is going to happen.”

“You can’t know for sure,” said Mother.

“I do know for sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and reasonable the way Daddy always used to do. “Nothing’s going to come through the cracks, Mother. Nothing ever comes through the cracks.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “One time it did.”

I took her hand and helped her out of bed. I led her down the stairs one footstep at a time into the kitchen. She walked on tiptoes and kept her eyes on the wall, as though the faded white surface could save her somehow. I brought her to the threshold and left her clutching the carved wooden banister, halfway into the kitchen, halfway out. Then I let go of her hand and bounded into the pantry on my own.

She was right. There was one can of soup left.

I knew where the can opener was from the Chef Boyardee Ravioli Uncle Toby had brought the week before. I found the dented saucepan under the sink even though it had a dead bee inside it. I emptied the bee onto the floor and stepped on it.

We had an antique stove, which I had to light with a wooden match. The lit gas made a blue halo around one burner. I stirred the soup with the wooden spoon and pretended that I was the mommy cooking good wholesome meals for her baby girl, and I wanted to feed her and feed her so her tummy would be full and she could grow.

See, little baby? Mommy loves you.

I stirred and hummed the kind of song I thought a cooking mommy would make.

Soon the heat from the antique stove and the heat from the summer day and the heat from the steaming soup filled the kitchen.

I poured the steaming soup from the saucepan into a bowl and then carried the bowl to the empty table, still pretending to be the mommy and the baby so happy to sit and eat together. Mealtime. Mealtime. Come and get it.

I sat down in the chair.

I dipped a spoon into the soup and fed myself a tiny sip.

Here you go, baby. Good for you. Yummy soup.

But then when I tasted it, I suddenly realized I couldn’t get it to go down fast enough with my spoon, even when I sipped and sipped one spoonful after another.

I spooned soup so fast into baby’s open mouth, she slurped and burbled. So hungry, Mommy. So hungry I can’t get full.

I put the spoon down and picked up the bowl. There were noodles and carrot squares and tiny wonderful cubes of chicken. I raised the steaming bowl to my lips and drank and drank until soup rolled down my chin.