"Laurel, of course you can do that. You can do anything you want."

"Thank you," I said, my nose tickling and my eyes burning. I was not afraid to let a few tears come.

"You don't need to thank me, sweetie."

"I mean . . . thank you. For everything, Nana. Thank you for everything."

And then Nana looked at me with such love. The kind of look that feels embarra.s.sing, and unnecessary, and maybe like it would be better spent on someone else because how could I possibly deserve it? I'd gotten this look from my grandmother occasionally before the accident, and a lot more since. I'd always glanced away and let it hit the side of my face, to avoid looking back at her.

But this time I didn't do that. This time I did look back at her, with my own version of it.

Almost two hours later, we went back to the Palisades Oaks. I honestly think we set the record for the slowest eating of a Denny's meal in history.

Etta came down when they called up to Mr. Kaufman's floor. She had been crying more-I could tell from the dried mascara streaks-but she smiled a bit as she walked off the elevator.

"David's out in the garden," she said, then added, "it went well."

"So how is he? Gabriel, I mean," asked Nana.

Etta shrugged. "He's alert. His mind is a little foggy, and he can't remember much. Everything's in bits and pieces, but the doctors say that's normal. Hopefully as time goes on the pieces will get bigger and, you know, come together."

"And physically?" Nana wasn't shy about this stuff. It was not unfamiliar territory to her.

Etta's face darkened a bit. "They're still doing tests, but they don't think he'll ever walk again. Right now he has some use of his arms and hands; they say that's a good sign." The sun hit her in the face, and maybe it inspired her, because she said, "But you never know with Gabe. He's a tough nut. He could surprise them all."

We just nodded. Etta smiled a bit at me and said, "They tell me you came to see him back in October." I nodded again. "Do you want to see him now?"

Nana looked at me sideways, her lips pressed tightly shut like she had to make a real effort not to speak for me. Several long moments pa.s.sed.

Finally, I asked, "You said David's in the garden?"

"Yes, he started going on about the smell and he needed some air."

"I'll go find him," I said, and walked away from Etta and Nana. The situation was bizarre enough so that it was a valid answer to the Seeing Mr. Kaufman question. It all fit somehow, in its weird, peach-colored way. The truth was, it didn't feel right to go upstairs without going through David first. I'd bristled at his permission before, but now I wanted it.

I went down a long hallway, following a sign marked THE OAKS GARDEN, and pushed open the door at the end of it. I found myself stepping out onto a big patio, surrounded by bare bushes and leafless potted trees, the dusty flagstones edged with pockmarked slush piles.

In the middle of the patio was a fountain, all angels and urns, and sitting on the edge of it was David, smoking a cigarette.

He saw me and lowered his cigarette hand to the ground like he was trying to hide it. "Hey," he said.

"Hi," I answered, and went to sit next to him. We hadn't talked much since he'd arrived at my house with his enormous backpack. It was like email and real speaking were two different languages, and we were both fluent in one and sucky at the other. But I had already figured out how I was going to break the ice.

"It smells totally gross in there," I said.

David exhaled, smoky. "Yeah, right? What is that?"

"I think it's a combination of a bunch of really disgusting things you don't want to think about."

He snorted a bit, then raised the cigarette to his lips.

"Can I have a puff?" I asked.

"Of this?" He looked genuinely surprised, and I was glad. "You don't smoke."

"I've done it before. With Meg and Mary Dill one night last year." The three of us had shared one, and we'd all been completely lame at it, but suddenly it seemed like the thing to do.

"Sure," said David, handing me the cigarette. "But just for the record, you don't have a puff, you have a drag. If you're going to pick up bad habits, you should get the lingo right."

"Drag. Got it." I took it from him and put my mouth on it, and said a silent prayer that I wouldn't cough my guts out. But I breathed the smoke into my lungs and held it for a second, then blew it out. It tasted horrible but felt funny, in a good way. Like I was someone else for a second. I handed the cigarette back to him and asked, "How was it?"

"Unbelievably weird."

"I bet."

"My dad and I . . . we were never-"

"I know."

"It was easier before he woke up. Not necessarily better. Just easier."

"Right."

David took a final puff-I mean drag-and threw the cigarette b.u.t.t in the fountain. We both looked at it for a moment, floating on the water. He sighed and fished it out, then walked it over to a nearby garbage can.

"So, what happens next?" It was my chicken question. I didn't have to bring up details like whether he was going to stay. He could fill in the blanks he wanted to, and I was sure I'd be happy with that.

"I guess I have to stick around for a bit. The doc said it's good for him to see me."

"But you'd rather not," I pressed.

David looked hard at me, and seemed to make a decision. It's okay, it's her. She knows. After a few seconds, he said, "I don't know what I want. I just want to get on with my life. I thought I had that figured out, but now . . . I mean, am I going to have to take care of him? If he's in a wheelchair? Is that what I'm going to be about?"

I just shrugged. I had been waiting for my window of opportunity.

"Does he remember what happened the night of the accident?" I tried to make my curiosity sound casual instead of raging.

A shadow flickered across David's face. "No. At least, not yet." He looked sadly at me. "No answers for you there, Laurel. If that's what you're waiting for."

Was it? Maybe not, after all. Because I still wanted to go upstairs.

"Do you mind if I see him anyway?"

David paused, and his features tensed for a moment. "My grandmother says you already did . . . right after I told you I didn't want you to."

"He's awake now," I said firmly but gently, resisting the urge to apologize.

"Yeah, but he's really out of it. He barely knows who people are."

"I'll just stay for a minute. It's just that . . . I'm here. I don't think I'll be back." Then I took a deep breath, inhaling the strength to fight for what I knew I deserved. "Don't you think I have a right?"

David stared at the fountain for a moment and then, without looking at me, said, "Go. Just promise me you won't ask him about the accident."

I nodded and slipped silently away from him, out of the garden.

The room hadn't changed since the last time I'd been there, except for the quiet.

Mr. Kaufman lay in the same bed, wearing the same navy pajamas, but he was breathing on his own. I realized how comforting the sound of the respirator had been, the steady rhythm something known and predictable in a totally messed-up scenario.

His eyes were closed, and I felt a combination of relief and disappointment. In theory, I'd wanted to see him awake. I'd wanted to talk to him and have him talk back. But the thought of that had also terrified me.

What would he think when he saw me? What would he say? Would he apologize? I'd tried to come up with something for me to say but couldn't.

If he's sleeping, I shouldn't wake him. . . . Maybe I can come back.

But as I'd said to David, I knew I wouldn't be back. It was now or never. I moved the armchair slowly, so it squeaked loudly against the floor.

Mr. Kaufman's eyelids fluttered open and locked onto the ceiling. I froze for a moment, watching them. His gaze traveled to the window and downward, finally landing on me.

We locked eyes for a long moment. I tried to make my face mirror his, expressionless and calm. But my heart pounded.

"Know . . . you," he said, his voice raspy but with a trace of his old strength behind it.

"Yes," was all I said.

"Dina?"

I slowly shook my head.

"Not. Dina. D . . . D . . ."

My mother. He was trying to remember my mother's name.

"Deborah," I said.

"How . . . are you?"

He thinks I'm her. The thought of it almost knocked me off balance. Keep it together.

"It's Laurel, Deborah's daughter."

His eyes scanned me up and down, then flickered with recognition.

"Look . . . like her," he said. There was something in the way he said it that made me wonder what Mr. Kaufman thought of my mother. Did he think she was beautiful? Did he have a little crush?

Seeing him struggle with speech, with reality, I knew I shouldn't be there. Like David had said, he wasn't going to give me any answers. But I couldn't move from where I stood.

And then he frowned, a familiar frown I'd seen him make so often in the past.

"Who . . . why . . ."

I leaned in like I was offering to help him find his words.

"Why . . . you . . . here?"

The question came out weak and shaky but landed with a booming thud in the s.p.a.ce between us.

Why am I here?

Why isn't it my mother? Why is it me, alive, and the others dead?

It was a gigantic question, a question I'd been hoping to find the answer to since April.

I looked at Mr. Kaufman and now, the casually puzzled expression on his face gave the question an entirely new meaning.

He wanted to know why I was here, visiting him.

Without thinking, I said, "I'm here because of my parents and Toby."

Another puzzled frown from Mr. Kaufman. Then I remembered David's vague request. Don't ask him about the accident.

What did he remember? Or more to the point, what had they told him?

"Do you know what happened?" I asked, my voice rising into a high octave. I knew I was breaking the rules but couldn't stop.

He swallowed hard and said, using extra syllables, "A-cc-i-den-t."

"Do you remember who was in the car with you?"

His face crumpled, like someone balling up a brown paper bag.

"Bet-sy."

I took a quick breath, which felt hot as fire. My whole body was shaking. "Do you remember who else?"

Mr. Kaufman looked at me with surprise and a little bit of hurt, like I'd slapped him. He moved his head slightly from one side to another in his version of no, not breaking our gaze.

All movement in the room froze, the blinking lights on the IV machine and the soft billowing of curtains from the heating vent.

He doesn't know.

To him, my family was alive. He existed in that world, still. A world that I would have given anything to have back. Why should he get to stay there, when he was the one who tossed the rest of us out?

When I opened my mouth again, it felt like slow motion.

"My parents and my brother. Deborah and Michael, and Toby." I had to push the names into the stalled air. "They were there too. And they're dead now. Too."

There was a pause where nothing happened. Mr. Kaufman's face did not change, and I wondered if he'd heard me.