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paper towel roll and wiped up the floor. “I’m sorry, Vassar. I can’t … I can’t talk about it.” He wouldn’t meet my gaze.
    To prevent any other questions, he quickly removed precut vegetables and meat from the refrigerator and busied himself with dinner. He and Mom always set aside Sunday evenings to plan and prep meals for the week ahead, so each day of the week had its own plastic container. Tuesday’s Dinner: stir-fry. (“If only people would realize that plan equals freedom. Once you plan, you don’t have to waste time every day rethinking the same issues, remaking the same decisions,” Dad would say. Often.)
    Forcing a jovial tone, he said, “An exotic meal for you tonight, Vassar: mushrooms, sprouts, onions, sliced rib eye—over rice. Stir-fry. This’ll help prepare your taste buds for Southeast Asian cuisine.” He opened the refrigerator. “Let’s see. Where’s the ketchup?”
    I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. So, while I set the table, I told him The Brilliant Plan. He was just as impressed as I was.
    â€œWe can always use another author in the family. Why don’t you go on up and tell your mom? She needs to hear this. It’ll perk her right up.” He looked at his watch. “Dinner will be ready in eight minutes and fifteen seconds.”
    As I headed up the stairs, the phone rang. Dad answered.
“Oh, hello, Amber … . Late for what? … Tonight? … Unfortunately, Althea will have to reschedule. There will be no Hour of Reflection in the Spore household tonight … .”
    Â 
    As I entered their bedroom, Mom quickly slipped a book under the mint-green duvet. But not before I saw the cover: a buxom maiden kissing a muscular farm lad who seemed to have misplaced his shirt.
    I sighed. My numerous attempts to steer Mom toward works more literary had failed. There sat Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy, and The Portrait of a Lady in a patient row—untouched—on her bedroom bookshelf. For a woman who was highbrow in every other area of her life—including a fondness for Puccini—she certainly sank low in the fiction department.
    Mom looked strangely fragile and vulnerable without makeup, wearing bifocals and a beige cotton nightgown. I’d never noticed the deep lines between her eyes, or how far the corners of her mouth drooped when she was fatigued. Moss-green walls combined with the mint duvet created the illusion she was drowning in a vat of split-pea soup.
    She struggled to sit up, adjusting the pillow behind her back.
    â€œSorry about last night. I wasn’t—it must have been something I ate. But I’m feeling much better now.”
    Since when did beef Stroganoff upset anyone’s stomach?
    I noticed a bottle of pills on her nightstand.
    Great: Grandma Gerd is driving Mom to self-medicate.

    â€œUp for a rousing game of Boggle?” I shook the plastic box of dice enticingly. “Come on, you know you are. We have eight minutes until dinner. And you owe me a chance to even the score.”
    She managed a weak smile. “Maybe later.”
    I set the game down on her nightstand. Then, in as peppy a tone as I could muster: “I have some news that’ll cheer you up.”
    But The Brilliant Plan didn’t seem to make a difference. Her eyes still held an expression of foreboding. The lines were still there. Her mouth still drooped. Apparently, my odds of making or not making valedictorian were secondary to The Big Secret.
    She stared at me a moment, then asked, “Vassar, are you happy?” As soon as she said it, I could tell she wished she hadn’t.
    â€œHappy? What do you mean?”
    â€œOh, you know …” She forced a light tone. “Has your life so far been a happy one?”
    I’d never really thought about it. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
    She considered for a moment, then lightly shook her