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place. I feel comforted by our friends putting things right. My friends now. And I wonder if they will continue to be my friends. How often did we see Sarah after Matthew died?
    The fridge is full of leftover cold cuts and pickles packed in Tupperware, aluminum and wax paper. There are several loaves of bread in the breadbox, Danishes and cakes in pink boxes. The food looks alien, perhaps even genetically engineered to look like real food.
    The real food is the jars of raspberry jam from last summer that Marc, Hannah and I made together. They’re organized on the inside of the door and labeled ALYS’ RAZZLE DAZZLE in Marc’s lovely, round cursive hand. My vision goes soft. I hold tight to the fridge door. He was so pleased with himself. Planting the raspberries had been his idea and last summer was the first they’d been prolific. His sweet smile, faded yellow T-shirt, tan arms holding a gallon tin bucket, a pipe in his mouth. I want to sink to my knees, but my children need me right now.
    Should I make crepes for breakfast, Hannah’s favorite? Or omelettes, always Dafydd’s first choice? I stare into the fridge as the motor turns over for the third time. A stanza from a poem by Michael Leunig, which I’d used as a prologue in one of my first published books years ago, snaps into my mind:
    When the heart
    Is cut or cracked or broken
    Do not clutch it
    Let the wound lie open;
    Let the wind
    From the good old sea blow in,
    To bathe the wound with salt
    And let it sting.
    Let a stray dog lick it,
    Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
    A simple song like a tiny bell
    And let it ring.
    * * *
    A whole day goes by. In the night I awaken and don’t remember anything beyond standing at the refrigerator, except for the terrible moment of viewing Marc’s still body, the life of him so definitely somewhere else. I vaguely remember driving myself to the hospital, but Dan Wolfe had driven me home. He’d given me a sedative and I’d gone to bed.
    On this morning, the second day of Marc’s being gone, after breakfast, we all pull ourselves into our brand-new public roles of “Grieving Widow,” “Man of the Family” and “Sad Little Fatherless Girl.” A limousine picks us up. Someone, probably Ed Meyer, our business manager and Marc’s executor, must have arranged everything. The limos, the three p.m. service at the Writer’s Guild in West Hollywood. I guess I must have signed something at the hospital for the cremation? Notices I learn later went out in late editions yesterday of the
Los Angeles Times,
the
New York Times
and the trades. But it is mostly word of mouth that has gathered the large group already queued up outside the door. I have on a simple knee-length sleeveless black dress and a long strand of pearls that Marc gave me on one of our anniversaries. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail and I am wearing sunglasses. Hannah is angry that I am wearing black. She has on a hot pink jumper and a polka-dot skirt. Dafydd is wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and a navy blue blazer.
    The car drops us at the building’s austere entrance. My sister and her family are behind us in another limousine. Hannah, walking between Dafydd and me, sets the pace, moving too slowly for such a young girl.
    In the lobby, there is a leather-bound book laid open for people to sign. “One-sheets” for many of the movies for which Marc did the music are displayed around the entrance, hung on the walls alongside the covers of his latest jazz CDs. A poster-size photo of Marc stares down at me.
    “I haven’t seen that one,” Dafydd whispers. “It’s a good one. He’s smiling.” Marc’s hair had grown longish and his blond highlights are caught by the camera. He is tan and his hazel eyes shine. Several weeks ago, before he had it taken, I asked him if he was sure he wanted to wear a black T-shirt. He reached over, kissed me, and said, “All my Brooks Brothers button-downs are at the laundry.” He neverwore a button-down. Marc