"I'm kind of busy," I call out to her, trying to mask my sigh.

Dirk sends me another message: "R U still there?"

"One sec," I type. "BRB."

"Doing what?" She opens the door enough to stick her head inside. When she sees me with the laptop, it's her turn to sigh. "It's a beautiful day. Let's put that away and go for a walk."

"Later, okay? I'm journaling." One of the counselors I had to talk with after the transplant encouraged me to keep a diary about how I was feeling through the whole process. She told my mom about it, too, so now, whenever she catches me on the computer and gives me a guilt trip, I tell her I've been writing about my feelings, which usually makes her back off. "Can you close the door behind you, please?"

She stares at me with the hazel bordering on light-green eyes she pa.s.sed down to me, blinks a couple of times, then quietly exits. My gut clenches, hating that I might have hurt her, but wishing she had something other than me to keep her busy during the day. What will she do when I go back to school? Dad won't let her work, I know that much for sure. The one time after my transplant that she suggested she was thinking about getting recertified as a paralegal, or how she might want to go back to school and become a lawyer, he totally lost it, throwing a chair across the room. A few inches to the left and he would have clocked her with it, which I'm pretty sure was exactly what he was trying to do. Not that she'd ever admit that about him. She'd make some excuse about what a tough childhood he had . . . how his father used to beat him and how he never really worked through his anger about that. "That's bull," I told her once. "Why don't you just leave him?"

"Because I can't," she said quietly, staring at me in a way that made me think that there was a d.a.m.n good reason she hadn't left, and the only one I could come up with was me.

The message box on the screen blinks at me, and I look down to see that Dirk has asked me another question. "So, how old are you IRL? You're not really some gross forty-year-old guy wearing underwear in his mom's bas.e.m.e.nt, eating Cheetos, are you?"

"LOL! No, definitely not," I answer, then pause before addressing the issue of my age. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"That's cool," I type. "I'm nineteen." I land on this age because it's closer to my own than the twenty-one I'd listed as Sierra's, and it also gives him a chance to pa.s.s on hanging out with me in Zombie Wars since five years younger might be too much for his tastes. "Almost twenty," I quickly add, and then I wait for him to respond.

"Maybe I can take you out for your birthday," his message reads, and I smile wider, thinking how desperately I want to live in this world rather than my own.

Hannah.

The morning of the salon's grand opening, Hannah drives to Sea-Tac airport to pick up her parents. They insisted on flying over from Boise for the event, but Hannah knows it's really just an excuse for them to check up on her.

After Emily's funeral, she went back to the farm for a few weeks, curling up in her childhood bed for most of the days she spent there. Her mother tried to tempt her with her favorite foods-fresh strawberry ice cream, bacon-wrapped meat loaf, and chicken potpie-as though calories could serve as some kind of magical antidote to grief. She managed to nibble on these offerings, but only to placate her mother. She couldn't taste a thing.

In the evenings, Hannah sat on the wraparound porch with her father, numbly staring out at the blossoming vegetable garden. In the old wooden swing, its joints creaking with each push forward and fall back, he would hold her hand and talk about Emily. "Remember her face when she learned how to open a pea pod?" her father asked. "Look, Pop-Pop,' she said. Pea seeds!'" His hands shook and a tear rolled down his creviced, sun-weathered cheek. "What was she . . . four, then?"

"Three, I think," Hannah whispered. Of course she remembered. Her mind was flooded with memories-made sodden by them. The first time Emily rolled over and then, six months later, when she pulled herself up to stand next to the couch. Hannah remembered her daughter's regularly skinned knees and her red apple phobia after seeing Snow White. She remembered the way Emily had let go of her hand the first day of kindergarten, her h.e.l.lo Kitty backpack over one shoulder as she walked bravely down the hallway to her cla.s.sroom, one white kneesock sagging around her ankle. "I can do it myself, Mama," Emily said, and Hannah glowed with pride that this pink-cheeked, bright-eyed child was hers, sure of herself in a way that many girls seem to lose track of as they journey toward adolescence. At twelve, Emily was already beginning to lose her girlish shine, jaded by the prep.u.b.escent hormones raiding her blood. She posted a Do Not Enter sign on her bedroom door; Hannah had to ask permission before tucking her in for the night. Long, deep snuggles were replaced by short, cheek-brushing kisses. Emily no longer talked freely about her days; Hannah had to grill her for even the smallest details. One night, a few days before the accident, Emily slammed her bedroom door, furious that Hannah wouldn't let her go to the mall alone with her friends. "I hate you!" Emily screamed. "I wish you weren't my mom!"

Hannah was already missing her daughter when she died, mourning the years that had so quickly pa.s.sed them by. She was grieving whatever it was that allowed Emily to pull away so soon, so easily. That, of course, was before Hannah knew how deep real grief could go.

"She was an amazing girl," Hannah's father said, roughly wiping at his tears with the back of his free hand. "G.o.d just gained another angel."

G.o.d is a selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Hannah thought. In the end, she left the farm after Labor Day, unable to manage her parents' sorrow on top of her own. She also couldn't handle their not-so-subtle suggestions that she should make her stay at the farm a permanent move. Though she emailed and talked with them on the phone at least once a week, today would be the first time she'd seen them in over six months. She'd gone back to the farm for Christmas, but only because they had pleaded with her. The truth was, without Emily, she would be all too happy to pretend that holidays no longer existed.

Pulling up in front of the airline's pickup lane, Hannah sees her parents already standing by the curb with their bags. They will stay at Isaac's house on Mercer Island, since she no longer has the s.p.a.ce to host them. Her brother said he would come to the opening, too, but he wasn't sure what time, since he was flying in from a business meeting in Los Angeles and would be on standby.

"h.e.l.lo, sweetie," her mother says, pulling Hannah into a tight embrace. She has a clean, soap and water smell that conjures up memories of Hannah's childhood: nights spent shucking corn with her mother in the kitchen, stirring enormous pots of what would become endless jars of blackberry jam. Pulling away, her mother cups Hannah's face with both hands. "You look good."

"Thanks," Hannah says, though her voice strangles on the word. She knows "You look good" is her mother's code for "You look too tired and too thin and I can't believe you haven't come home in over six months." Just like when her mother said, "I support you no matter what you decide to do," after Hannah informed her she planned to skip the whole husband and marriage gig and go it alone as a parent. What she really meant was, "No man will ever marry you if you already have a baby. You're making the biggest mistake of your life." But then her mother held Emily for the first time, and Hannah knew it didn't matter how she became a grandmother-it only mattered that she was one.

The truth is that Hannah did date after Emily was born, thinking someday she might be able to get over Devin cheating on her, but she didn't introduce her daughter to any of the men with whom she spent time. She kept her parenting and dating lives separate, wary of bringing a man into Emily's life who might disappear on them both. She clung to what the experts said about the perils of dating as a single parent, how they cautioned against inserting someone into your child's life without some kind of a.s.surance of long-term commitment. None of her boyfriends, even those she dated for more than a few months, made her feel safe enough to truly open up her heart and risk getting hurt again. She wonders sometimes if Devin's infidelities damaged her ability to trust to the extent that she can't fall in love. Once bitten, forever shy.

Her father hugs her next, and after getting their bags into the trunk, Hannah starts to drive them toward Isaac's house. "I thought you might want to get freshened up before the party," she says, after telling them where they're headed. "I'll come back to get you in a while."

"We're just fine, honey," her father says from the backseat. "It's only an hour flight."

Hannah glances at him in the rearview mirror. "Are you sure? I'm going to be pretty busy. You might get bored."

"We'll help," her mother says, reaching over from the pa.s.senger seat to pat Hannah's arm. She notices the back of her mother's hand, the skin creped and veined, a sharp, painful reminder that her parents won't be around forever, either.

Hannah tries to keep from sighing, knowing that they mean well, but that their "help" might add an extra fifteen minutes to each task. "Okay," she says, attempting to sound cheerful. "Great." She directs the car to I-405, heading north to Bellevue. Her father hums a nameless tune, a habit Hannah grew accustomed to years before. Wherever her father is, whatever he is doing, he is likely humming. That, along with the rooster's crow each day and the buzz of crickets at dusk, made up the sound track of her youth. She misses it sometimes, the simplicity of that life, but she also loves the quicker pace of living in a bigger city-the restaurants, the theater, the museums. She also loves having the mountains on one side of her and the ocean on the other; if she wanted to, she could ski and go swimming on the same day. She's not sure she could give that all up.

"Have you thought any more about moving back to the farm?" her mother asks as they pa.s.s through the Renton S-curves. Last year, her mother had campaigned the hardest for her to make the move. "You can open a small salon here," she suggested. "The women of Boise could use a little glamour."

Now, Hannah grits her teeth before speaking. "No, Mom." Really? She's here less than twenty minutes and already pushing the subject? Hannah realizes it's getting harder for her parents to handle the heavy labor on their property. Her father hired a foreman to manage the dairy business, and several laborers to take care of the two hundred acres of potatoes and corn. They have always wished for one of their children to someday take over the farm, but neither Hannah nor Isaac has any inclination to live in the country. Still, they are her parents, and Hannah feels guilty knowing that if she or Isaac doesn't move home, as her parents age, they'll likely have to sell the farm off, parcel by parcel, in order to survive. At the very least, they will have to fully turn its operations over to someone else, relinquishing to a stranger what they poured their hearts and souls into through the years. Hannah knows that, because he built the success of the property out of ten small acres he began with over forty years before, this prospect breaks her father's heart.

"A change of scene might be good for you," her mother says, wringing her hands together in her lap.

"Marcy . . ." her father says, a hint of warning in his tone.

"It's okay, Dad," Hannah says, gripping the steering wheel more tightly. She glances over to her mother. "I have a change of scene. I already moved-remember?"

"I'm just worried you did that to avoid your grief," her mother says. "Packing away all of Emily's things like that, pretending she never existed-"

"That's not what I'm doing," Hannah snaps. Her voice is raw. She clears her throat so she won't cry. How can she explain how she feels to them? How can she tell them that she's worried if she is surrounded by Emily's things, the weight of the memories might crush her? If she goes through Emily's clothes, her toys, her books, that she simply won't be able to survive? Having put her daughter's belongings into storage is keeping Hannah alive; having them around her might end her.

"Are you sure?" her mother continues. "I was watching Dr. Phil the other day-"

"Oh my G.o.d. Dr. Phil . . . really?" Hannah says. Besides baking and working in the garden, her mother's favorite pastime is armchair psychiatry, trained only by afternoon talk-show hosts.

"But, honey-"

"Enough, Mom, okay? Can we please just enjoy the day? It's important to me."

"Marcy," her father says again. He reaches over the seat, squeezes his wife's shoulder, and she finally falls silent.

Fifteen minutes later, as Hannah parks in front of the salon, her mother leans forward to peer out the windshield. "Is that it?"

"Yep," Hannah replies as they extricate themselves from the car and approach the garden gate. She finished the landscaping just yesterday, shoveling wheelbarrows full of smooth river stones into the empty spots of the flower beds, thinking about how Emily, at seven or eight, used to sit in their driveway and put together small, ragged towers out of rocks: Yard Henge, Hannah jokingly called them. "Structural engineer in the making," Isaac said proudly, when Hannah emailed him pictures of his niece's handiwork.

It's a mallet to her stomach, every time, realizing that Emily is no longer anything in the making. All of her daughter's dreams have vanished. She won't be a large animal vet or a Broadway star. She won't be an artist or a lawyer or a hip-hop dancer. She'll never have her first kiss. Hannah won't help Emily get ready for the prom, she won't take her shopping for a wedding dress, or one day cuddle a grandbaby. What was a future filled with infinite possibility seems hopeless to Hannah now. There are moments when taking her next breath feels like a pointless endeavor.

As Hannah and her parents make their way to the front steps, she notices that while she was gone, the caterers set up two round tables on the flagstone patio and the florist arranged the centerpieces. Small gatherings of chairs were placed in what will be shaded spots in the yard, so people can chat while they help themselves to the appetizers. "It's beautiful, honey," her mother says. "I can't believe how much work you've done since the last set of pictures you emailed us." She is trying, at least, to make up for her comments in the car.

"Thanks," Hannah says. "The contractor Isaac recommended did a really amazing job. Let me show you inside." She opens the front door only to find Sophie in the middle of berating one of the employees Hannah hired to work at this location.

"You will not wear that disgusting nose ring during this party," Sophie says to Veronica, a younger stylist with Crayola-red-hued short hair and pale, porcelain skin. Hannah interviewed her a few weeks ago, and Veronica's portfolio of the color work she'd done was stunning enough for Hannah to hire her on the spot. Today, Veronica wears black leggings and a fitted white blouse. She also has a small gold hoop hanging from the center of her nose, above her upper lip. Sophie, as usual, is dressed in her signature snug black T-shirt and jeans.

Veronica opens her mouth, but Sophie holds up her hand to stop her. "Uh-uh-uh, cherie. I don't want to hear it. I don't care what you did at your other salon-here you will look clean and professional. You will not wear jewelry that makes you look like a bull. This is Bellevue, not the University District or the circus. We do not cater to the steam-punk, liberty-spiked crowd here. Am I making myself understood?"

Veronica nods, as does Peter, the other stylist Hannah hired, looking a little afraid of Sophie, and then they head toward the back room to finish filling the small gift bags with salted caramels, various hair products and accessories, and coupons for services at both salons. Each party attendee will get one, and at last count before Hannah left for the airport, only twenty were finished. They expect at least two hundred people throughout the day.

Hannah clears her throat to get her friend's attention. She and Sophie had agreed Hannah would have complete charge of the second location, but clearly, Sophie still feels ent.i.tled to take the lead when necessary. Hannah finds this more amusing than annoying, wondering not for the first time if her friend's bossy nature is the real reason she opts for having lovers instead of boyfriends. "I have lovers because I'm French, darling," Sophie told her, when Hannah first brought the subject up.

"And the French don't get married?" Hannah asked, unable to disguise her amus.e.m.e.nt.

"But of course. And then they take lovers." Sophie grinned. "I'm simply skipping a step." Hannah knows that like her own, Sophie's cautious nature when it comes to relationships has more to do with a badly broken heart, but she never points that out to her friend. Hannah understands that sometimes, the stories we tell ourselves about the choices we make are the only things that keep us from being crushed by the truth.

Seeing Hannah's parents now, Sophie throws her hands up into the air. "Steven and Marcy!" she says, and steps across the small entryway to give them both kisses on the cheek. "Welcome to Ciseaux, part deux!" She sweeps her arm out from her body, gesturing to the rest of the room. "What do you think?"

Hannah takes in the s.p.a.ce the way her parents might, seeing it for the first time. The pale-blond bamboo floors set against the periwinkle walls; warm cherry vanities with their matching mirrors adding an elegant Victorian feel to the otherwise modern-edged room. There are two low black couches in the reception area, and bright splashes of fresh yellow roses in tall silver vases on the reception desk. It's a different look than their downtown Seattle location, which is more chrome and black leather with red accents, softened by white linen paint on the walls.

"It's absolutely lovely," Hannah's mother says, and her father nods in agreement. They wander over to the back wall, where Hannah's father crouches down to inspect the hair-washing stations, verifying, Hannah a.s.sumes, that the plumbing was correctly installed.

Happy to see them momentarily occupied, Hannah leans over to whisper in Sophie's ear. "You were a little harsh with Veronica, don't you think?"

Sophie rolls her eyes dramatically. "You didn't hire her with that thing in her nose, did you?"

Hannah smiles. "No. She wasn't wearing it during the interview. I was planning to give the dress code talk later, but now that you've scared the s.h.i.t out of them, I won't have to."

"You're welcome." Sophie kisses her cheek. "Now, I must make sure the caterer has the hors d'oeuvres scheduled to come out in the right order." She flits down the hall to the kitchen.

"What can we do to help?" Hannah's mother asks, having wandered back to stand next to Hannah. Just as Hannah is about to respond, she sees Isaac pull up behind her car by the curb. Perfect, she thinks. He can keep them busy for me.

"Isaac!" she calls out as her brother enters through the gate. He looks up, his face brightening as he sees her waving. Irish Twins, her parents always called them, born less than fourteen months apart. Isaac was older, but they were close enough in age as children to be either inseparable or at each other's throats. Both she and Isaac share their father's slim build and height, but while Hannah inherited her mother's black hair and blue eyes, Isaac has their father's stiff, blond buzz cut and brown irises. "p.o.o.p Eyes!" Hannah used to taunt him when he irritated her. "Scarecrow!" was always Isaac's retort. Hannah smiles now, remembering how they alternately teased and played with each other. She'd often considered giving Emily a sibling so her daughter wouldn't miss out on what Hannah cherished in her relationship with Isaac, but she'd never quite worked up the energy to get pregnant again. Now that Emily is gone, Hannah wishes she had made a different choice.

Her brother lifts her up in a huge bear hug, spinning her around before dropping her back to the ground. "Hey, Sis," he says. "How goes it?"

"Good," she says, tucking her flyaway hair behind her ears. "Better, now that you're here. I thought for sure you wouldn't make it until this afternoon."

Isaac grins, eyes sparkling. "What, and leave my little sister to fend for herself with the parental units? No way." Her brother understands her need for solitude more than her parents do. More than Sophie, even. He's the only one who didn't tell her that moving out of the house where Emily grew up was a bad idea. "You do what you have to to get by," he told her. "Everyone else can screw off, okay?"

Even though Emily's death hit him hard, too, he was there for Hannah. She knew that he couldn't have loved Emily more if she had been his own daughter. Isaac packed her room so Hannah wouldn't have to, and carefully moved her daughter's possessions into storage with the rest of their things, save the bare minimum of necessities she took with her to her new apartment. When Hannah expressed enthusiasm about the salon renovation, he made sure to connect her with the best architect and contractors he knew. He gave her room to grieve without telling her how she should do it. He treated her like he normally would, instead of like something he might break.

"Thank G.o.d. Mom already hit me with the whole I think you should move back to the farm' campaign."

"Oh no," Isaac groans. "Really?"

"Really. And an attempt to preach grief management according to Dr. Phil."

Isaac laughs. "Guess I got here just in time." He pauses, his expression suddenly serious. "You hanging in there, Hannah-banana?" Hannah's throat closes once again, and all she can manage is a brief nod. Isaac stares at her a moment, unsure if he should believe her, but then glances around the yard. "Everything looks awesome."

"Thanks."

Isaac smiles again when he sees their parents standing on the front porch. They wave excitedly, and Isaac waves back. "Go," he tells Hannah. "Take care of whatever you need to. I'll keep them entertained."

Hannah gives him a quick, grateful hug, then heads inside the house to check on the stylists' progress on the gift bags. She's happy to see that they're all filled, but her blood suddenly runs cold with a memory of shopping with Emily to pick out what to put in her birthday party grab bags.

"I want sparkly purple pens, not pink!" six-year-old Emily insisted. "And Dora the Explorer is dumb-I want h.e.l.lo Kitty erasers. And then I want chocolate Kisses and jelly beans, too!"

"You can pick one candy," Hannah said gently, and Emily proceeded to throw a tantrum right there in the Target toy aisle, knocking a few things off the shelves as she flailed. Minutes later, Hannah carried her out of the store, kicking and screaming, both of them in enormous need of a nap.

Why didn't I just give her want she wanted? Hannah thinks now. Why did I fight with her on every little thing? If I'd known how little time I'd have with her, I would have said yes more. I would have played Barbies instead of telling her I needed to clean the house. I would have let her have ice cream for dinner, I would have read her that extra story after the six we'd already read.

"Hannah?" Veronica's voice snaps Hannah out of her thoughts. "Are you okay?"

"Of course," Hannah says, blinking rapidly. "Just a lot on my mind today. What were you saying?"

"These were left over." Veronica holds up a few packages of caramels. "Do you have any kids? They might like them."

Her words slice into Hannah's chest. The question Do you have any kids? is the one she dreads most. How is she supposed to answer it? Saying no is too painful, but saying yes, but my daughter died is unbearable, akin to stripping naked beneath bright lights in a roomful of strangers. Just the thought of her daughter wrings her dry-she still can't fathom speaking casually to other people about her loss.

"You keep them," Hannah says. Her voice cracks on the words, and she wonders how many hidden land mines she'll face today, how many times her mother will tell her what she needs to do to process her grief and get on with her life. She doesn't want to join a bereavement group. She doesn't want to talk with a therapist or move back to the farm. The only thing she wants is the one thing she can't have. She wants her daughter back.

Olivia.

The morning of Maddie's first day at Eastside Prep, Olivia lies in bed, watching her husband get ready for work. At four a.m., it's not light out yet, though she can hear a few early-rising birds chirping in the cherry trees outside their bedroom window. James stands in front of the mirror that hangs over the long, low mahogany dresser, carefully looping his tie into a Windsor knot.

"You look handsome," she says sleepily. Whatever their problems, the attraction she feels for her husband rarely falters.

"Well, thank you," James answers, turning to look at her with one corner of his mouth curled upward. "Want me to come back to bed?"

She smiles. "I think that's a fabulous idea." She pauses to stretch and adjust her pillow. "As long as you do all the work."

James laughs as he finishes with his tie, then takes a couple of steps over to sit down on the edge of their bed. The weight of him rolls her toward him. He places his hand on her hip and runs it down her thigh. "Another time, okay? I need to get to the office."

"Isn't there any way you can work from home for a little while so you can drop Maddie off with me?" Olivia asks, keeping her voice low and neutral. It makes sense to her that the least he could do is drive her to school, since he was the one insisting that Maddie attend his alma mater.

His hand freezes on her leg and a shadowy tension falls in a curtain across his face. He doesn't even have to speak. She knows his answer. She knows that tension is only a precursor to what could come next-a pebble next to the boulder of one of his rages-so she shuts her mouth and pulls the covers up to her chin. He finishes dressing and she pretends to be asleep when he kisses her good-bye.

Olivia tries to get back to sleep, but her thoughts spin too quickly, remembering the first time she really understood where that shadow on her husband's face could lead. She was seven months pregnant, it was a Tuesday night, and he'd come home late from a long day at the office, an occurrence that was more common than not. Olivia could almost see the stress rising off his body in wavy little lines, like steam from warm, wet pavement, and she wondered if a deal had gone wrong or if one of his VPs was giving him a hard time. She greeted him as she always did, at the front door with a martini and a kiss, but after the first sip he took of his drink, he stared at her like she'd done something wrong and the shadow appeared.

"What? Doesn't it taste okay?" she asked him.

"It tastes like s.h.i.t." His green eyes were gla.s.sy, as though he might have already been drinking. James didn't drink often, but when he did, something about him shifted.

"What?" Olivia said, scrunching her eyebrows together over the bridge of her nose. She'd reapplied her makeup two times since six o'clock, waiting for him. "You're gorgeous no matter what," he'd said the few times she'd happened to go bare-faced, "but it makes me feel like you love me more when you make a little extra effort to look good."

Her initial, but silent, reaction was that he should love her no matter how she looked. In the end, however, she decided he was right. The only things she had to do during the day were clean the house, shop, and occasionally have lunch with her few girlfriends. Just because they were married didn't mean she could let herself go. She needed to stay the same woman he fell in love with in Florida, when she would spend at least an hour getting ready for one of their dates. Marriages ended because one or both of the people stopped doing the things that attracted their spouses to them in the first place, so makeup was the least she could do for the man who gave her so much.

Now, James dropped his briefcase to the marble floor with a loud thunk and loosened his tie. "I said, it tastes like s.h.i.t." He took another sip, then promptly spat it back into the gla.s.s.