Danica remained professional and direct. "Blake, you can do this. You are more than just a bar guy. Look in the mirror and tell me what you see. Right now. Go ahead."

Blake tilted the rearview mirror and looked at his face. What did he see? He felt stupid looking at himself and trying to describe what he saw. A handsome guy? A mourning friend? Nothing seemed right.

"Blake? Top of your head, stream of consciousness. Tell me what you see."

"I can't. I don't know what I see. A guy. A confused, sleazy guy." He turned the mirror away.

Danica sighed. "I thought you might see that. I know you just looked away from the mirror. Look again." She waited.

How the h.e.l.l? He moved the mirror.

"I bet if you look deeply enough, you'll see the funny guy Dave saw. The confident, exciting, capable skier, the businessman and friend. He's in there. Do you see him?"

Blake felt himself smile. "Maybe." He was being snarky and he knew it. He got his feelings in check and said, "Okay, yeah, I can find that guy in there."

"Good. Now remove the thoughts about being sleazy. Confused is okay, but sleazy has no place at a funeral. Find that guy Dave loved and take him inside. Sit down midway, not up front, not in the back. Up front is a.s.sumptive, and back rows are for people who want to hide."

"Invisible would be good."

"No, it wouldn't. You respected Dave, and he respected you. Sit down, listen to the words, and let yourself feel what is said about your friend. Honor him with your attention-and your emotions. If you cry, it's okay. If you laugh, it's okay. If you feel something, then you've done a good job. That's all that's really important. This is about Dave's family, not about what you look like in there. Okay?"

The way she said, Okay, filled with compa.s.sion, made Blake's stomach lurch.

"Okay. I can try."

"I have faith in you, and I'll see you Monday."

Blake hit the End b.u.t.ton on his phone and looked in the mirror again, searching his dark eyes for that person Danica seemed sure existed. Do this for Sally and Rusty. He climbed from the car and went into the building, searching for the appropriate middle row and settling in next to a painfully thin, gray-haired woman with skin that was almost translucent. She turned to him and smiled, though her greenish-gray, murky eyes were already tear-filled.

Blake nodded in acknowledgment. He looked around her and noticed that there was an empty s.p.a.ce on her other side. It appeared that she was alone, too. Blake took comfort in that, then realized that taking comfort in her discomfort was probably not the right thing to do. His confidence faltered, and he reminded himself again of why he was there. Sally and Rusty.

The service moved swiftly and sadly through forty-five minutes of memories and meaningful pa.s.sages from family members. The woman sitting next to him cried throughout. Blake tried his hardest to listen to every word, but in his mind danced images of Dave and their last day on the slopes. He should have seen his angst; he should have stopped him, demanded that they ski together. But that wasn't who Blake was. He'd been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to reach out, and now he'd lost him. This is not about you, he reminded himself. Sally and Rusty lost him.

After the service, Blake stepped from his seat and offered his hand to the older woman to help her up.

"Thank you," she said in a trembling voice. "I hate these services, and at my age, I'm going to them every week."

"Did you know Dave well?" Blake asked.

"Not really. I saw him coming and going from his car each week, but he was close with my neighbor, so I wanted to pay my respects." They headed toward the door.

"Is your neighbor here?" Blake asked.

"Yes, back row." She nodded toward a small, blond woman. "Poor dear. She's had a tough time of it. I don't know what she'll do now."

Blake didn't recognize the woman, though he wouldn't, he realized. Outside of a few ski buddies, he had no idea who Dave spent time with. According to Dave, not many people besides his family. But wouldn't she have sat with the family if she were close to them? He watched the woman pull on her heavy, wool coat and rush out of the building alone.

After the cemetery service, Blake approached Sally. He was glad he had the umbrella to hold on to. He needed something to focus on besides the fact that his best friend was being put into the ground. He wished Sally had waited until spring, giving them all time to accept Dave's pa.s.sing. She'd been adamant about his immediate burial, and though he understood her need for closure, it didn't help alleviate the sick feeling in his stomach.

He hugged Sally. "I'm really sorry." He wondered if Sally blamed him, but dared not ask. He didn't really want to know the answer.

Sally nodded, unable to speak beyond her tears. She clung to him and cried. Blake held her, while Rusty watched him out of the corner of his eye. Blake knew Rusty worried that he'd tell Sally about him skipping practice. Even Blake knew this was not the time or place for such discussions. He winked at Rusty to ease his mind and watched the boy's worry slip into a relieved nod.

Sally pulled back from Blake, wiping her eyes.

"Dave would be glad you're here," she said.

Blake noticed that she didn't say she was glad he was there. This is about his family, not you. "He was a good man, Sally. I wish I could have stopped-"

Sally shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "Don't. You couldn't have stopped him. This was probably a long time coming."

"What do you..."

She leaned in close, out of Rusty's earshot. "There were problems between me and Dave." She searched his eyes, and Blake wondered if she saw his disbelief; then she continued. "We really need to talk."

Blake's voice failed him. Sally pursed her lips the way women do when they're holding back violent sobs. Her chest hitched. Blake shot a look at Rusty, who was now standing far away from them with his head bowed, facing the parking lot. Dave, what was going on?

"Sally...I didn't know," Blake began.

Sally shook her head, then looked at Rusty. "Don't. Sunday? Rusty is going to a friend's house for the afternoon. Can you come by around one?"

Blake felt like he was standing on the edge of the slopes, and one step in the wrong direction would send him tumbling over the cliff. This is about Sally and Rusty, not me. "Of course. Sure."

Chapter Eighteen.

Mich.e.l.le answered the door with teary eyes and a red nose Sunday morning. Danica's therapist senses perked up. "What's wrong?" She walked into the foyer.

"Grandma's sick," Mich.e.l.le explained through tears.

"How sick? Is she here?" Danica looked around the small room, then glanced in the kitchen.

"She's in her bedroom." Mich.e.l.le led Danica into the living room, where she sat on the sofa. Family photographs hung above a small fireplace. The carpet beneath their feet was golden and worn, the dingy color of mustard powder. A piano sat off to the side, with photographs of Mich.e.l.le at all ages and ones of her mother as a younger woman.

"Mich.e.l.le, is she okay? Should I take her to the hospital?" Danica waited for an explanation as Mich.e.l.le sniffled and wiped her eyes.

She shook her head. "No, she doesn't have a fever or anything. She's just tired and has a sore throat."

Danica breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. You scared me. But why the tears? Is there something else going on?" She watched Mich.e.l.le's face for signs of trouble, and beneath the tears, her cheeks trembled. "Mich.e.l.le, what is it? You can tell me."

"It's just..." She swiped at her eyes. "It's stupid, I know, but...I can't help thinking...what if Grandma dies? Who will take care of me?"

Danica had worried about that herself. The truth was, Mich.e.l.le had no other family members to turn to. She'd likely go into the foster system until she was eighteen...unless her mother could pull her s.h.i.t together.

"You can't think like that. Your grandmother is not old, by any means, and a cold is hardly something to worry about."

Mich.e.l.le grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. "I knew you wouldn't understand." She stood and walked into the dining room.

Danica followed. "Mich.e.l.le, honey, I do understand your worry, but that's not going to happen."

Mich.e.l.le turned on her with spiteful eyes. "You don't know that! You can't know that. No one can!"

"That's true, but let's talk about this. Your mom is still in the picture. She might-"

"Right, my mother? Do you even know who you're talking about? She's been in rehab twice. She never sticks around. When she does get clean, it's only long enough to find another nasty, drunk man she can shack up with, and I'm left wondering how long until the next time." Mich.e.l.le collapsed into a chair. "My life sucks."

"Mich.e.l.le, your mom is not in rehab anymore. It was your choice not to live with her this time. She worked two jobs before to make ends meet. It's not that she wasn't there for you; she was providing for you. Raising a child alone is hard."

"See, you're on her side," Mich.e.l.le accused.

"No, I'm not. It's just that I'm sure she's doing the best she can, and maybe you should give her a chance. When was the last time you saw her?" She realized Mich.e.l.le hadn't mentioned seeing her in months.

"I'm not going to see her. I'm the teenager! I'm the one who's supposed to do stupid things, not her!" Mich.e.l.le stood and crossed her arms, sobbing and huffing in anger.

Danica threw up her hands. "d.a.m.n her!" She watched Mich.e.l.le's eyes grow wide. "How dare she ignore your needs! What the h.e.l.l is she thinking? Who does she think she is?" She crossed her arms as Mich.e.l.le dropped hers.

"What are you doing?" Mich.e.l.le asked in a give-me-a-break voice.

"I'm p.i.s.sed. She put you in this situation. The h.e.l.l with disease or addictions that she can't control. Grow up, Mom!"

"You don't believe that."

The anger in Mich.e.l.le's voice began to dissipate, and Danica pressed on. "I'm serious. To h.e.l.l with the crutch of addiction. She needs to grow the h.e.l.l up and take charge of her responsibilities. Your poor grandmother is lying in bed, sick, worrying over her granddaughter and her daughter, and what's your mother doing? Going in and out of some rehab facility, paid for by you know who," she pointed to Nola's bedroom. "Probably loving every G.o.d-forsaken minute of that comfortable lifestyle."

"She can't help it. She's addicted."

Inside, Danica silently cheered Mich.e.l.le on for standing up for her mother, but she said, "Yes, she can! She can stop drinking. She can make a decision to stop working so much when she is sober and to be around more for you."

"You have no idea what you're saying! You're a therapist. You should know addiction isn't a choice!" Mich.e.l.le seethed.

Good. Let it out. "You said it yourself. A few weeks ago, you said she made those initial choices and she could fix them, remember? What if Nola dies?" She rolled her eyes, pretending to be appalled.

"I was mad. She can't help herself. And Grandma isn't going to die. You're supposed to help me, not freak me out." Mich.e.l.le stomped back to the living room.

Danica remained in the dining room, arms crossed, hip jutting out like an angry teen. She watched Mich.e.l.le slowly turn around, a smile creeping across her lips.

"I know what you're doing, you know. I get the whole," she waved her hands up and down at Danica, "pretending-to-be-me thing you're doing."

Danica shrugged, then smiled. "Do you blame me?"

"Yes!" Mich.e.l.le said, then slumped down onto the couch.

Danica sat beside her and put her arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. "We can't pick our parents, and you do have something to think about. I don't think Nola is going anywhere, but maybe we should go see your mom."

"I don't want to," Mich.e.l.le admitted.

"Okay, but remember, you're not alone. Your mom is trying, and this time maybe she's found her way to the brighter side. You'll never know unless you give her a chance."

Mich.e.l.le didn't respond. She just sank into the couch, moving closer to Danica, and to Danica's surprise, she let her arm remain around her. Danica liked the feel of Mich.e.l.le against her. She remembered sitting in that same position with her own mother, and the comfort it brought was undeniable. She wasn't Mich.e.l.le's mother, but she was glad she was there for her.

After Mich.e.l.le calmed down, Danica spent a few private minutes with Nola. She was lying in her bed, fully dressed, with a blanket across just her lap. Her head was propped up on a pillow, and she was reading comfortably.

"How are you feeling?" Danica asked.

"Oh, not great, but not horrible. I have a bad cold, and it's sort of drained me. I'm fine, really, just very tired. I heard it all, and I feel for her. All that mommy drama can turn any girl inside out."

Danica partially closed the door behind her. "How is her mom?"

"It's tough to say. She seems to really be on the straight and narrow now, but, you know."

"But you've seen her?" Danica took in the doilies on the dresser and the heavy cardigan thrown over a rocking chair in the corner. Did every grandmother own a rocker? The meticulously kept bedroom reminded Danica of her grandmother and of how much she missed her.

"Oh, yes. What do you think I do while Mich.e.l.le is with you?" She set down the book and patted the thin, flowery bedspread.

Danica sat down.

"You know, this comes as no surprise. My husband was an alcoholic. Fifty-two years, until it finally killed him. I hate that Nancy followed in his path."

"It's not really a choi-"

"I've heard it all, and I get it. It's in the genes or some such thing. I don't really understand it, but I hate it just the same." She looked toward the window, as if she were watching a memory unfold. "Nancy is a good person. She was such a good girl growing up. She didn't drink or anything until right after Mich.e.l.le was born. I don't know. Maybe it was too much for her, raising a baby and all. I should have been around for her more." Nola sat up and put her hand on Danica's leg. "We do what we can, right?"

"Nola, you lived two hours from her when Mich.e.l.le was born, didn't you? Mich.e.l.le told me about it."

"Yes, she's right. But mommy guilt runs deep. I try to do right by Mich.e.l.le. She's a good girl at heart. I worry, though, about her drinking like her mother." Nola picked up a gla.s.s of water from the nightstand and took a sip.

"I worry, too. She's watching her own life unravel around her. I think if we teach Mich.e.l.le about the dangers, the likelihood of it happening to her...She's a smart girl. I think she'll figure it out." Danica hoped her words were true.

"Or, she won't." Nola looked at her and shrugged. "One thing I've learned in my life is that we can teach and hope and pray, but in the end, each person controls their own actions."

"Would it be okay if I went to see Nancy?" Danica wasn't sure if she'd go through with it, but she was contemplating whether it might help.

"Of course. Nancy is thrilled that you're in Mich.e.l.le's life. I think she really wants to turn her life around, but I also think it's a nasty cycle. Mich.e.l.le's getting older and she disregards her mother, and that sets her mother back. And really, it's Nancy's own fault." She set down the book. "Any advice for an old woman?"

Danica sighed. "I don't know. Keep loving her; keep teaching her." She looked at the picture on the nightstand of Nola, her husband, and Nancy when she was an infant. "Better yet, keep loving them both, and keep teaching them both. Everyone needs familial support." As she said that, she was thinking of Kaylie, not Nancy.

Chapter Nineteen.