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ornately detailed design now grayed from soot; the iron grate; the remnants of wood, mounds of ash, and the cracked brick hearth. She’d been a child in this house, a little girl who probably sat in front of the fire, playing board games on that rug. But as she tried to conjure the image, to transform the space in time back to something recognizable, it felt forced, like she was simply drafting a story in her mind.
    When she couldn’t wait any longer to use the bathroom, she stood, bracing the arm of the sofa to regain her equilibrium. Specks of light clouded her vision, but she slowly made her way up the stairs and paused in Lisa’s doorway to say good night. Lisa brought her an old T-shirt and some sweatpants from Grace’s dresser, turned down her bed, and got her evening dose of medication.
     
    When Grace opened her eyes again, the green digital display on the clock atop the milk crate next to her glowed in the darkened room: 1:36 a.m. She was wide awake. She sat up slowly, trying to protect the ribs that begged her to be still, and walked to the window, the cold wood floor creaking beneath her bare feet. The full moon cast a dim light onto the front lawn, and stars speckled the clear sky. It was peaceful. Beautiful. Or it could be; maybe it used to be. She put her hand to the window. In the frigid air, the icy-thin glass fogged around her fingers.
    She found some socks in the dresser and wandered to the bathroom. She stood at the pedestal sink, bathed in the bright light bouncing off the white-tiled walls, staring at her mirrored image: the freckles, the mole near her chin, the teeth, the bite of her jaw. She had good teeth, very straight. Had she worn braces? She made several faces at herself—serious, goofy, tongue out, tongue in . . . could she flip her tongue? It was like playing with a new toy—this face, this body. She opened the medicine cabinet and examined the shaving cream, disposable razors, deodorant, toothpaste, floss—like a detective looking for clues. She pulled the cap off the Mennen deodorant and whiffed. Masculine, familiar. Did Lisa use this? Did she? Did Michael? A small makeshift table sat next to the sink, piled high with makeup, brushes, a hair dryer, and jewelry. She searched for a glass or cup—her cotton mouth had returned—but despite evidence of every possible item one might cram into a bathroom, found none.
    She peeked into Lisa’s room. Paint rollers and open paint cans sat atop newspapers lining the floor along the walls, now half-covered in a vivid turquoise that practically glowed in the dark. A pile of ripped wallpaper sat in a heap on the floor, and Lisa lay curled into a ball on the mattress like a baby.
    Grace made her way down the creaking stairs to the kitchen for water. The house was quiet and dark. She stood in the center of the room and considered the space. It felt familiar. She shut her eyes and heard cabinets closing, a woman’s voice calling her down to breakfast. Her muscles relaxed. She opened her eyes. There, in front of the sink—a tall woman, maybe forty, with wild, long, wavy dark hair, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a paint-covered apron, looking out the window toward the backyard, smiling. Mom. It was only a glimpse and then it was gone.
    Perhaps everyone was right. Being here would bring it all back. She got some water and took another Ambien from the bottle by the sink. She sat at the table, enjoying the nanosecond of what must have been a memory before a loud clacking sound started up.
    She walked into the hall, the noise growing louder. It was coming from below. Under the stairs, she saw a door, held shut by a hook-and-eye latch. She lifted the hook and the door opened, as if she’d given freedom to a force behind it. The air was cold and damp. The noise grew louder. It had to be the furnace. Lisa had said Mom and Dad’s stuff was in the basement.
    The switch on the wall failed to turn on a light. Still, she gripped the railing and descended the