FIVE

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up at five A.M., I know I’m not getting back to sleep. I never do. My face is wet, and so are the ends of my hair, which is clinging to the back of my neck. I know I’ve been crying in my dreams again. I’m shaking and I pull a sweater on over my T-shirt.

I asked her not to go.

She said, Did you see something?

No, I said. Not like that. It’s just…a feeling. I’m afraid something will happen.

She had smiled. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m just flying down to take a deposition.

I didn’t say anything. That was the moment. That was when I could have said, don’t go. I could have begged. I could have pitched a fit. I could have lied and said I saw a vision of her plane crashing.

I’ll call you when I land, she said.

She called from her cell phone, right from the plane while it was on the runway. She’d landed safely. The weather was clear in West Palm. After the deposition, she was hoping to take a walk on the beach. She wished I was with her—it was December, and it was seventy-five degrees. She wanted pompano for dinner. She’d never had pompano.

And key lime pie, I said.

I had hung up the phone, feeling relieved. And then I couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with the day. Rosie, the friend of my mom’s who was staying with me, made me a sandwich. I sat in front of the TV and ate it. It stuck in my throat and it was hard to swallow.

I started to choke. I choked and choked. I couldn’t breathe. Rosie came running to help.

There was nothing in my mouth to choke on.

I ran to the phone. I called her cell, my fingers stabbing the buttons. Her cell phone had no service.

For the next four hours, I kept dialing the number, over and over and over. I just sat on the couch, dialing, while Rosie peeked in the room at me, a worried expression on her face. She kept saying, I’m sure everything is fine, and I kept dialing, not even bothering to answer her.

The next thing I knew, my grandparents were at the door. They lived two hours away, and as soon as I saw them, I knew. I put my hands over my ears and screamed. I screamed and screamed.

I am still, somewhere in my head, screaming.

They tried to keep the details from me, but you find out. A bit here, a bit there, a question you don’t want to ask but do.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how it happened. Don’t think about it.

I turn on all the lights. Better.

I tiptoe out into the short hallway. The house is so quiet. Even the birds haven’t woken up yet. I push open the door to the kitchen. I know just how much to push the door so that it doesn’t squeak. I squeeze in through the gap.

I turn on the kitchen light and sit at the table. It’s an old wood table, with knotholes and wide planks. I put my hands on the wood. I stick my fingers in the knotholes. Sometimes feeling things helps. After Mom died, I couldn’t understand how a table could still feel so solid. I felt like the whole world was dissolving and I would fall through the edges of things. Nothing had seemed real.

I rest my cheek against the table. It is so strange to live without touch. Mom touched my hair as she walked by. She hugged me. She scratched my feet while we watched TV. She kissed my forehead. Shay doesn’t touch me much because I flinch when she does.

If only, I think, the missing her would go away. Then maybe I could figure out how to live with everything else. The fear that I’ll always be like this is the worst.

The door squeaks behind me. I don’t know how she does it. But Shay always knows when I’m up. I sit up straight, but I don’t turn to face her. I don’t want to see anyone, not yet, not while I’m afraid.

I hear her get out the milk and pour it into a pan. I hear her rummage for cups. I hear the paper rattling as she unwraps the chocolate.

By the time I can smell the milk, I’m calmer. Shay puts a cup down in front of me. It is a blue cup with a green dot on the handle for my thumb to rest on. It’s my favorite. I haven’t told her that, but she knows.

She breaks off a piece of chocolate and puts it in the bottom of the cup. She puts a spoon and a napkin near my hand. Then she pours the frothy warm milk into my cup. I watch the milk swirl around the chocolate. Within a few seconds, I can see curls of melted chocolate in the milk.

Shay pours her own milk. We stir, the spoons tinkling softly. We take our first sip. The warmth and the sweetness fill my mouth.

The first time Shay made me hot chocolate her way, I had been shaking and crying. It’s hard to describe the feeling—it’s panic and pain and rage all mixed together, and it sent me shooting from my bed without thought, moving anywhere to get rid of what I was feeling. She had put a hand on my shoulder, and I had jerked my shoulder away. She had asked me if I wanted to talk, and I had said no, said it very loud and very strong and very mean. I had told her to go away and leave me alone.

When she didn’t leave, when I heard her rustling around the kitchen, I didn’t turn around. I wouldn’t give an inch. I didn’t care what she was doing, I didn’t want anything she had to give. I almost didn’t drink what she put down in front of me. Then I had taken the tiniest of sips, resolving not to finish it, not to give her the satisfaction. But there was something about the way she sat there, sipping her own drink, that had calmed me. She hadn’t tried to talk. She hadn’t looked at me. She had looked out at the gathering light. I had finished the hot chocolate. I was suddenly grateful for the kitchen lights, the blue cup, the silence.

I didn’t know how to say thank you. So I washed the cups instead, and the milk pan. She waited at the table. And then we went back to our beds, where I guess we both stared into space until it was time to get up.

That had set the pattern. Shay doesn’t try to touch me. She doesn’t speak. She just comes and keeps me company until morning starts.

The birds start to make a racket. The light starts out black and turns blue. I’ve never seen anything like it before. In Maryland, the day just gets lighter. Here, it gets bluer. I wonder where Emily is.

I drain the chocolate, feeling guilty at how good it tastes. And I wonder if I can stand one more death.