You know I wasn’t just relying on coffee to get it all done, whispered Jenny in my ear.

I shook my head vigorously. Jenny’s voice was already gone, but her message lingered. A pristine home no longer seemed quite so aspirational.

“Cess, are you going back to camp this week?” I said.

“I don’t know,” she said, but she sounded like I’d just asked her if she wanted to play with a hornet’s nest. Then, more loudly, she said, “Daddy, am I?”

Matt stopped wrestling with the empty paper bag he was trying to fold and looked at her. I was waiting for him to say, “I’ll do whatever you want, love. If you want to stay home with me, let’s do that.” He could afford to take unpaid family medical leave. Even at a high-pressure firm, the death of a spouse bought time and goodwill.

Instead he said, “Well, pumpkin, Daddy has to work. I could pick you up early every day, though.”

Her face fell.

“Miles and Stevie will be there all of the rest of this month, and most of August, too,” I said, hoping to soften Matt’s blow. “I know they’re already missing you.”

“Okay,” she said softly.

“Want to color, or maybe play a game?” I asked. She hesitated before nodding. Then she slid off the stool and ran to her room.

“Do you really have to go back to work so soon?” I said to Matt once she was gone. “It might be good for the two of you to be together now.”

He rested his elbows on the kitchen island and put his head in his hands. “Yeah, I do. I’ve already been away too long.”

My eyebrows shot up, though they shouldn’t have. I of all people knew this was what workaholics did: they worked, even when—or, one could argue, especially when—their family needed them.

“I remember wanting my dad around after my mom left. It was the loneliest time of my life,” I told him. “And that was even with my brother there.” Nick was a photographer now, and though he shared an apartment in LA with a couple other creative types, he was usually living out of a suitcase in some far-flung location. I rarely heard from him.

“It’s not exactly the same,” said Matt.

I wondered if anguish was occupying most of his neurons. Could he not see that what Cecily was dealing with was far worse? I took a deep breath. “No, it’s not. I still hope you’ll give it some thought.”

“Sure,” he said, in the tone people use when they plan to do the opposite.

“And what about you? How are you doing?” I asked, hoping to redirect.

“Me?” He seemed surprised I had asked. “I’m angry. I know it’s not right, but I can’t believe she left us.”

“Yeah,” I said. Along with frantic sobbing and sudden confusion, blind anger had become one of my go-to states. “I understand that.”

“I’m going to start seeing a therapist. Cecily is, too.”

“That sounds like a smart idea.” I decided to take advantage of Cecily’s absence. “Have you heard anything more from the medical office?”

He shook his head and looked toward the staircase. “It’ll take weeks to get the report back. Though I’m not sure it matters.”

It mattered to me. I understood it wasn’t going to change what had happened, but I wanted to know just how much I didn’t know. It wasn’t right, but somehow that bit of information seemed like a friendship scorecard that would inform me just how off the mark I had been. Everyone has a secret or two, but hers had managed to cast our entire history in a hazy light.

I swallowed hard. “I know it’s not my place to tell you what to share, but I’m having a really hard time making sense of what happened. Jenny didn’t even mention she was taking painkillers, so this came as a really huge shock.”

“I know, but what’s left to say? She made a fatal mistake.” He met my eye, almost daring me to push it further.

The sound of Cecily’s feet slapping against the wood came echoing into the kitchen. She was holding a large puzzle. “Can we do this together, Aunt Penny?”

“I’m here for you , sweetie.” It took every ounce of willpower for me not to give Matt the look , as my children called it, as I said this. “I’m happy to do whatever you’d like.”

I stayed through Cecily’s bedtime, even though I needed to get online and finish my annual self-evaluation, which was due in two days, and had just received an email from camp saying there was a lice outbreak and I would need to buy a special comb and go through my children’s hair—and PS: backpacks, lunches, and extra clothes would have to be brought to camp in a trash bag each day until further notice. I reminded myself that asking Sanjay to handle it wasn’t just a good idea; it was part of our deal. He must have been thinking about that, too, because when I sent him a quick message he texted back, Already on it.

“Thanks for having me over,” I said to Matt as he walked me to the front door. Cecily had already hugged me goodbye and was upstairs getting ready for bed.

“I’m glad you came by. Cecily was happier than I’ve seen her since . . .” His voice trailed off. “Well, you know.”

I knew. “We’d love to have her over in a few days, if you think that might be all right.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

I slipped my shoes on and regarded him. The tension from our earlier conversation was nearly gone, and I didn’t want to ruin it by saying something. But as I reached for the doorknob, I realized I couldn’t swallow my words. Not when it came to Cecily.

“Matt, you probably know this already, but Cecily’s going to need more attention than she’ll ever ask for,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. The word came out as a question. He looked at me, waiting for me to say more.

“That’s all,” I said to him. “I’ll see you both soon.”

I was no therapist, but Cecily would probably feel like she needed to act as though she were fine—just like Jenny had, I realized with a pang. Her sorrow would reveal itself from time to time, but she would likely seem calm and poised, and everyone would say she was so, so brave.

But while they were busy praising her, they might not notice that she was starting to fill in the daily holes left by her mother. That her grief followed her like a shadow.

That she was missing out on parts of her childhood that would haunt her long after they had passed.

That evening, I brought my laptop and a glass of wine up to bed. I had intended to finish my review, but when I looked at the dent in the sheets beside me, I was reminded that I still had not sent my list of changes to Sanjay, who was working downstairs. I should have emailed him after we talked two days earlier. Well, better late than never. I opened a blank email and began to type.

Hi. Here’s my list:

Make more money. Maybe find a part-time job.

Help out more around the house and with the kids.

Be more present when you’re with me.

xo, Penny

But could I really sign with kisses and hugs after giving my husband a short list of his personal and marital deficiencies?

I erased the xo and wrote,

I love you.

Then, for reasons I could not explain, I erased that, too, and replaced it with Love .

Then I quickly hit “Send” before I had a chance to continue to overthink it.

Good job, I heard Jenny say.

I was no longer worried about losing my mind—it had probably gone missing years earlier, anyway. But these chats I’d been having with Jenny seemed impossible, and not just because she was dead. Which person was I even speaking to? The friend I thought I’d known—or the woman who had been hidden beneath all that polish?

Impossible or not, I still felt compelled to answer. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m trying.”

“Who are you talking to?” Sanjay had appeared in the doorway, toothbrush in hand.

“Myself,” I lied.

He raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

Probably? But radical honesty or not, I wasn’t ready to tell him about the mental conversations Jenny and I had been having. “I’m fine,” I said.

“You know it’s okay if you’re not, right?”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

He sighed. “It means I love you, Penny.”

Then he was gone. I heard his footsteps creaking down the hall, and then the sound of the bathroom door closing. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for Jenny’s voice to return. Instead, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

FIFTEEN

Most people say they want the truth. What they mean is that they want it if it’s palatable. I was surprised to realize that the majority of our mutual friends and acquaintances were pacified by the explanation that Jenny had been the victim of an unspecified prescription error. (“It happens more often than you think,” Sanjay’s father, Arjun, had said, and since he wrote prescriptions, he would know.) I wondered if they believed this, or if they were worried additional information might soil Jenny’s memory.

Jael was not most people. We met for a drink a few days after giving Sanjay my list. I’d wanted to see her but had been putting it off; our conversation at the memorial service led me to believe she would pepper me with questions about Jenny’s death.

I wasn’t wrong.

We’d barely sat down when she began asking: What kind of medication was it? Was the family suing the pharmacy that provided the prescription? What about her doctor or even the drug company? Weren’t they at fault, too? Someone had to be held accountable.

I had some of these very questions myself, but all I could do was weakly reply that I didn’t know. I hated lying and was pretty sure the omissions I was making were one and the same. In desperation, I had finally suggested she reach out to Matt to ask him herself. I was relieved when she said that she would.

“One down,” said Jael. She waved her empty wineglass at our waiter. Then she looked at my glass, which was still nearly full. “At least grief isn’t turning you into a lush.”