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—
Laurel’s vintage velvet couch is in the living room. I stop short when I see it, a sharp pain of longing for her in my chest.
“You kept it,” I say.
My mom bites her lip. “I did. I love that couch. I was thinking if you wanted it in your room, we can do that. It’s a little crowded in here with two couches, but…”
The dog, Bart Bingleheimer, is springing from our old beige couch to Laurel’s, testing for a comfortable spot. He finally finds one and settles down, burrowing his nose between the cushions on the velvet sofa.
“Well, you can see who really likes it.” My mom laughs a little. “I did save some things, just so you know. Some we sold at the estate sale. But I have her archives and all the other photos. It’s a lot. I put it in the shed. It will take a lot of time to go through, and I’m not sure, right now, that I’m ready—”
Her voice breaks and tears spring to her eyes.
“I’m sorry that I made you take on my grief, Bella. Having you care for Mom’s house for me. All that. If I hadn’t done that, maybe—”
I cut her off. Her tears are making me feel sad, and a little guilty.
“I would have found someplace else, Mom,” I say. “To drink. And I was doing that before she died.”
It feels weird to say that out loud.
“I started going to a grief group,” she says. “It meets once a week, at night. It feels strange to me that I somehow feel comforted by a roomful of sad people, but I do.”
“Life is strange,” I say.
“A very true thing,” she answers. “A very true thing.”
Ricci appears in the living room, nearly crashing into the velvet sofa. She’s holding a vase.
“Look, Bella,” she says. “Look what Agnes made. It’s Grandma.”
I stare at the vase—urn—in her hands. It’s heavy-looking and beautiful, winding lilac and aqua with spare shimmers, like someone added tiny, glistening jewels to the mix.
Ricci shoves it into my hands. Laurel. We never did anything with the white boxes that came home after she was cremated. They disappeared into my mother’s closet.
Laurel.I’m holding my grandmother, just like I did on the bricks outside her house a long time ago.
I hug the urn tighter to my chest.
“Agnes gave it to me a few weeks ago. She’d been working on it for a while,” my mom says. “I was thinking…maybe during spring break, you and me and Ricci can take a trip. Driving, to a couple of places. We could scatter Mom. It seems like she’d like that, bits of her everywhere.
“I’m sorry,” my mom continues. “That my grief made you think you had to hide yours.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just look back down at the beautiful urn.
“Anyway,” she says, “we have so much to do. Should we get you some school clothes? And we need to get you set with your new group. Tracy gave me a lot of paperwork. There’s a therapist she recommended, but they aren’t taking new clients right now, so I’m looking around for—”
Her words are tangling in my ears.
It’s all a little too much for me. Being in the house is overwhelming after being at Sonoran Sunrise for two months. Seeing all our things, Ricci petting a strange dog, my grandmother in my arms, the thought of school andeverything everything everything.
The real world is closing in on me.
I hand my mother the urn. My mind is racing. I try to breathe slowly, in and out, but I feel dizzy.
“I…” My voice falters. “I just…I think I need to go lie down.”
I run to my room.
