Page 49

“We need a big bowl,” Noa directed, dragging a chair to the counter to stand on. “And a mixing thing. And probably towels.”

“Why towels?”

“You must be new to cooking.”

Turns out, five-year-olds have very specific ideas about measurement. “One cup of water” became “one cup plus some extra for the fairies.” The mixing process involved enough enthusiasm to coat most of the kitchen in flour. By the time we got the cookies in the oven, we looked like we’d been in a bakery explosion.

“Now we wait,” Noa announced. “Want to see my dinosaurs?”

Her dinosaur collection took up most of the living room floor once she’d arranged them all. Each one had a name, a personality, and apparently a complex backstory involving interdimensional travel and a lot of betrayal, something I was very familiar with. Not that I told any of the dinosaurs that.

“This is Professor,” she held up a battered T-Rex. “He used to be married to Doctor,” a purple stegosaurus, “but then Doctor fell in love with Helicopter,” surprisingly, not a dinosaur but an actual toy helicopter, “and they moved to the volcano.”

“That’s quite a story.”

“Yes. Professor is very sad about it. He writes poems now.”

Before I could respond, she asked, “Hey, can you braid?”

The topic change gave me whiplash. “Braid?”

“Hair. Can you braid hair? Mine’s finally long enough but Daddy only knows ponytails and those are BORING.”

I swallowed down hard. “I can braid.”

“Really? Will you braid mine? Please please please please…”

“Okay, okay. Go get a brush.”

She rocketed off to the bathroom and returned with a brush, approximately forty hair ties, and enough clips to style a small army. I settled on the couch with her on the floor between my knees, her hair still baby-soft and smelling of strawberry shampoo.

The motions came back automatically. Section the hair. Cross left over middle. Cross right over middle. Steady rhythm, gentle hands. Sophie’s voice echoed in my memory: “Hold still, Sam. If you keep wiggling, it’ll be crooked.”

We’d been twelve, sitting on the cold bathroom floor of our shared room. She’d just learned French braids from a YouTube video and insisted on practicing on me. We’d stayed up until midnight, braiding and re-braiding each other’s hair, eating stolen cookies and gossiping about which boys in our class were cute.

“Tighter at the top,” she’d directed, watching me work on her hair in the mirror. “Otherwise it’ll fall out during gym class.”

Twenty years later, I could still hear her voice. Still feel her fingers working through my hair with intimacy that only came from sharing a womb, a childhood, a life.

Until she decided a man was worth more than all of it.

“You okay?” Noa twisted to look up at me. “You stopped braiding.”

“Sorry, sweetie. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“My sister.”

“You have a sister? Where is she?”

The innocent question hit harder than it should have. Where was Sophie? Still in Charlotte? Already moved into my house? Playing wife to my husband? Growing his baby?

“Far away,” I managed.

“That’s sad. Sisters should be together. Like Professor and his cousin Stephanie. They live in the same cave now.”

“Sometimes sisters can’t live in the same cave.”