Later, much later, after Josh had dropped Zach off at home (the two of them shaking hands, Zach saying in an upbeat, conciliatory way, reminding Josh why they’d been friends in the first place, Hey, man, it was good to see you. It was good to hang out), Josh listened to the voice message.

Josh, it’s Ted Stowe. Listen, some things have come up here at the house. Vicki is in the hospital, she had an episode, she’s in for testing, we don’t know what the hell is going on, but her parents, my in-laws, are coming over in the morning and they’ll take care of the kids. So you don’t have to worry about coming to work on Monday. Vicki probably has your address somewhere; I’ll write you a check for this week, plus a bonus.

Vicki said you did a great job, and I really appreciate it, man. You don’t know how critical it was to have rock-solid help, someone to fill in the gaps, I know it couldn’t have been easy, and man, the kids . . . they love you and Vicki loves you and she’s going to be okay. We just have to keep believing that. Anyway, thanks again for your help. And good luck at school. I can’t believe I’m leaving such a long message. I hate talking to machines.

Click. Josh listened to the message a second time as he drove home. It was a good-bye, good-bye a week early, which was fine, in theory, and Josh was certain he would be paid handsomely, but the good-bye bugged him. It had come from Ted, who was the wrong person. Ted, who suggested the only form of closure Josh might need was a check. What about saying good-bye to the kids? What about finding out if Vicki was okay or not? Episode? What kind of episode? An episode serious enough that she had to spend the night in the hospital? Serious enoughthat her parents were coming in the morning? Josh, helped along by the tequila and the beers he’d consumed at the bar, was both enraged and confused. It was another murky question—was he part of Number Eleven Shel Street or not? Could he be dismissed with a phone message? Apparently so.

Thanks again, good luck, good-bye. Josh was tempted to cal back and inform Ted Stowe of Josh’s importance to the women and children of that house. He had loved those kids and cared for them better than anyone else could have. He earned their trust; he knew them. He became their friend. He had pul ed Melanie out of a quicksand of self-hatred and misery; he gave her confidence. He made her feel beautiful and sexy. He had confided in Vicki, he had treated her not like a sick person, but like a person person. He’d made her smile, even when she was on death’s door. He had confided to her about his mother. And Josh was going to help Brenda with her career; he was going to ask Chas Gorda how to sel a screenplay. He had done al of that—and Ted had written Josh off, cut him loose with a phone message. As if Josh were the plumber, the exterminator, someone who could be cancelled. I’ll write you a check.

Be careful. Not just because of Melanie, but because of the whole family. He had loved the family, and the family had broken his heart.

At a quarter to seven the next morning, Brenda heard what sounded like a suitcase on wheels bumping down the flagstone path, and then the creak of the ancient plank door opening. But no, she thought. It was impossibly early. Even people who went to church weren’t awake yet.

Seconds later, there was a tap on her bedroom door. Brenda opened her eyes to see . . . El en Lyndon poking her head in. Her mother. Brenda sat up.

“Mom!” she said.

The room fil ed, immediately, with the aura of El en Lyndon: her frosted-blond hair cut into a lovely bob, sunglasses pushed on top of her head, her permanent scent of Coco Chanel and vanil a, her pale pink lipstick. Her left knee was sheathed in a blue neoprene brace, and she wore tennis shoes in lieu of her usual espadril es. But stil , her pink tank was crisp and fresh and there were matching pink embroidered turtles on her Bermuda shorts. Who looked this wonderful so early in the morning?

My mother, Brenda thought. She goes to bed beautiful, she wakes up beautiful.

El en limped over to the bed, held Brenda’s face, and kissed her on the lips. Brenda tasted lipstick.

“Oh, honey!” El en said. “I’ve missed you!”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Brenda said. “Already.”

“First plane. We drove until midnight and stopped in Providence. And you know your father. Up at five-thirty.” El en Lyndon eased down on the bed, removed her tennis shoes, and said, “Scoot over. I’m climbing in.”

Wel , it wasn’t exactly the person Brenda wanted to be welcoming into her bed that day, but it was a kind of salve—even at age thirty—to be held by her mother. To have her mother stroke her hair and say, “You have been such a pil ar, honey. Such a support for your sister. What would she have done without you? She was so lucky to have you here.”

“I didn’t do al that much,” Brenda said. “Drove her to chemo, mostly.”

“And you watched the kids and you helped out around the house. And you gave her moral support.”

“I guess.”

“And you dealt with me, your wacky mother.”

“That I did. How’s your knee?”

“It’s fine. I’ve had a few setbacks that weren’t important enough to tel you about. My physical therapist, Kenneth, does not know I’ve crossed the state line, but when he finds out, he’s going to be very cross.”

“Because it’s too much,” Brenda said. “I wouldn’t have cal ed you, but . . .”

“Oh, God, darling, of course you were right to cal me. Half the reason why I’m not healing as I should is because of the stress of your sister. I’m distracted.” El en Lyndon lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. “This used to be Aunt Liv’s room.”

“I know. I remember.”

“Liv was a strong woman. Stronger than your grandmother, even. She was a great role model for you and your sister.”

“Yes,” Brenda said. And if she’s been watching me the past year, she’s dumbfounded.

“I know they think Vicki might have a brain tumor,” El en said. “Nobody said that to me, but I know that’s what the doctors think.”

“I guess it’s a possibility.”

El en took a deep breath. “You know, as a mother, you’re never ready to hear that your child is sick. It is . . . the worst news.” She gazed at Brenda. “There’s no way for you to understand. Not yet. Not until you have your own children. And even then, I hope you never experience it.” El en Lyndon relaxed into the bed a little and closed her eyes. “But you know, it feels good just to be here. In this room, especial y. This was the nursery for your grandmother and Aunt Liv. The cradle of strong women. I can feel their strength, can’t you?”

“Sort of,” Brenda lied. In truth, Brenda felt weak and tired. The conversation with Walsh hurt, like a scrape on her knee, every time she thought about it.

El en Lyndon shifted her knee a little, and in another moment, she was breathing steadily, asleep. Brenda slipped out of bed and pul ed the sheet up over her mother’s shoulders.

Buzz Lyndon was in the kitchen with Ted, Blaine, and Porter, but no move had been made on breakfast. They were waiting for a woman to do it, Brenda supposed. El en Lyndon and Vicki had created these monsters themselves, but since El en was asleep and Vicki was gone, that left Brenda. Brenda hoped they liked cold cereal. She pul ed out the Cheerios and started pouring.

“Hel o, Daddy,” she said, kissing her father’s unshaven cheek. Unlike his wife, Buzz Lyndon looked like he had gotten five hours of sleep in a roadside motel. He looked like a long-haul trucker three years past retirement.

“Oh, honey,” Buzz said. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Brenda said. “Mom’s asleep.”

“Yes, she’s tired,” Buzz said. “When can we go see your sister?”

“Her MRI is at nine,” Ted said. “Which means I have to get going. She’l be finished by eleven. They should know more by then.”

Brenda fixed four bowls of Cheerios, she poured coffee and made a second pot, and she even managed to get Porter his mush. Melanie emerged and, after greeting Buzz Lyndon, made a plate of toast. A little while later, El en Lyndon shambled out to the kitchen, where she sat at the table, cutting up a fruit salad. The boys were bouncing off the wal s, thril ed by the unexpected presence of their grandparents. Here was a new audience!

“Wil you come to the beach with us?” Blaine said.

“Grandpa wil take you,” El en Lyndon said. “After we see your mommy.”

Brenda escaped to the back deck with her coffee. The kitchen was crowded and noisy, and although the arrival of her parents gave the day a festive air, it also felt strangely like a funeral. Everyone there except Vicki.

Please, please, please, please, please, please, she prayed. The backyard fluttered and chirped in response: butterflies, bees, rosebushes, a picket fence, green grass, blue sky, robins, wrens, sunshine. If God was anywhere, He was in this backyard, but there was no way to tel if He was listening!

Hands landed on Brenda’s shoulders. Firm, male hands. Her father. Buzz Lyndon dealt only in tangibles: Is there anything your mother can do?

Does anybody need money? Wel , yes, Brenda needed money, but what she realized now was that she wasn’t wil ing to ask anyone for it, not even her father. She would finance her debt, get a job, pay it off. She had spent enough nights in the cradle of strong women to know this was the right thing.

There was a voice in her ear. “Brindah.” The voice was a whisper; it was too intimate for her father. The hands on Brenda’s shoulders were not her father’s hands. Their touch was different. And then there was the voice. Brindah. Brenda was confused; she whipped around.