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my computer, a farewell
hand-me-down from my father that he sent me in the mail after a
brutal phone call with my mom that ended with her slamming down the
phone.
    When I open my e-mail, I see only two
non-junk e-mails. One is from Liz, a friend from Pali. I called her
right after we got to Oregon, but it went straight to voicemail.
Her response is short and kind of impersonal, detailing things that
seem millions of miles away.
    The other message makes my jaw clench. It’s
from my father’s work e-mail account.
     
    Wren,
    Picture of your baby brother. Jessica sends her
love.
     
    Dad
    --
    Thomas Sullivan
    Senior Vice President, Client Retention
    Southwest Region
    Dystel and Scott Advertising
     
    Jessica sends her love? Jessica, someone I
had met all of one time—at my dad’s office when she was working
there. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me.
I stare at the picture of the two of them holding their baby.
Benjamin. My dad always wanted a boy. Another thought I could have
done very well not knowing about. When I close my eyes, I try hard
to pretend that they’re strangers. It’s easier that way to feel
happy for them. My mom and I don’t talk about it. My father, the
divorce, Jessica. She doesn’t want to say anything disparaging
about him, and I’m fine with that.
    Deleting the e-mail, I stand up and sniff the
air. Even through the closed door, I can tell something is burning.
With the kitchen in working order, my mom is already experimenting,
mostly in honor of our neighbor Mr. Hannigan coming over for
dinner. I saw him in his front yard earlier in the day while I was
taking boxes to the curb for recycling. He was weeding in the rain.
When I went over to thank him for the desk, I accidentally found
out that his wife died last year. She was the one who kept up the
yard.
    When I reach the top of the stairs, I stop
and study the large antique mirror on the wall. It was a garage
sale purchase of my mom’s. She said she put it at the top of the
stairs to improve the flow of chi in the house. For the
record, my mom doesn’t know anything about feng shui .
Instead, she’s relying on a little pocket-sized book that was a
parting gift from one of her former co-workers.
    I haven’t said anything, but the mirror
bothers me. Feng shui or not, it makes it feel like
someone’s watching every time I walk past it.
    “Wren, you coming down?” my mom calls from
the kitchen.
    I recognize the tremor of panic in her
voice.
    “Be right there!”
    I reach back and tap the mirror. Feeling icy
water at my fingertips, I spin around and stare at the glass, which
has turned an inky, liquid black. My skin prickles with fear as the
blackness ripples like water. I shake my head and blink at my
reflection. When I raise my hand, I watch my mirror image do the
same, and the look in my eyes is a perfect reflection of the
surprise I’m feeling.
    The smoke alarm’s high-pitched shriek snaps
me out of my trance. I rush down the stairs to evaluate the damage
in the kitchen. Covered in flour and surrounded by dirty dishes, my
mom is stabbing at the alarm with the handle of a broom. She’s
usually a great cook—at least when she’s not trying to impress
guests.
    I laugh before choking on the smoke pouring
from the oven.
    “Do you miss L.A.’s air quality already?”
    She smirks and then starts coughing.
    “Well, I killed dinner.”
    Crossing the kitchen, I open the back door,
which opens directly onto a small, mostly dirt back yard. It’s dark
outside, and the air is cold and damp. Turning to the refrigerator,
I run through some dinner options while debating the likelihood of
getting a fire started in the tiny fireplace in the living room.
Then I figure a sweater is easier.
    “Baked potatoes and salad?” I ask. “And I can
make some vegetarian chili to go with it. Did we get cheese?”
    My mom nods, and I grab cans of beans and
tomato sauce from the cupboard. The oven is still hot, but reeking
from the