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follow the sounds coming from the TV.
    I find Izzy sitting on the couch, an open book beside her. There’s no one else there.
    â€œWho were you talking to?” I ask, sitting down beside her.
    She stares straight ahead and bites down on her lower lip. It’s her guilty look. “No one.”
    â€œOh. I thought I heard you talking.” I lean over. “Isobel,” I murmur. I kiss the top of her head, taking notice that she could use a shower.
    â€œMom.” She rests her cheek on my arm.
    I take a shuddering breath and put my arm around her. You would think it would be comforting at a time like this to feel your child in your arms. When you’ll never wrap your arms around another child again. But it’s the complete opposite. Izzy’s warmth, her touch, only makes me ache for Caitlin more. I hang on to her anyway.
    â€œWhat are you watching?” I ask, staring at the TV.
    â€œA show about works of art that were lost during World War II.” She looks at me. “Did you know that Hitler stole all this artwork from Jewish people? Real art like van Goghs and Degases and Klimts.”
    â€œKlimt?” I ask. I had no idea Izzy knew who Degas and van Gogh were.
    We watch the screen. There are men in a World War II army jeep careening along a mountain pass.
    â€œHe was an Austrian painter. He painted portraits and stuff,” she explains. “This guy named Bloch-Bauer hired Klimt to do a portrait of his wife. It had gold in the paint. Real gold. Then, during the war, the Nazis took the painting. Then it ended up in a museum somewhere. The guy’s family didn’t get it back until 2006. Can you believe that?”
    I look at her and almost smile. Almost. “How do you know all this, Miss Smarty Pants?”
    She points at the TV. “History Channel. And I think there was a movie about it.”
    An advertisement comes on for antacid and both of us sit there and watch it. The next commercial is for cat food.
    I feel like I should say something, start a conversation with my daughter, but I weirdly don’t know what to say. Too much time alone with the ceiling fan maybe. “How’s Mr. Cat?” I ask, grasping. The orange cat on the screen looks nothing like Mr. Cat.
    â€œPretty good. Not puking too much.” She’s still nestled against me.
    â€œThat’s good.” We’re quiet for a minute. Two more commercials: deodorant and fast food. “Have you seen your sister?” I ask.
    â€œYou mean like her ghost?”
    When I realize she’s making a joke about her dead sister, I’m so totally taken aback that it takes me a moment to answer. This would be the perfect opportunity to talk to Izzy about Caitlin’s death. We haven’t really talked about it beyond the barest facts. But I can’t do it right now. I just can’t. Not yet. “Have you seen Haley?”
    She looks at me, then the TV again. I can feel her shoulders droop. “In her room, I guess.”
    I look down at my sweet daughter. I know she’s angry with Haley. I understand why. She blames Haley for Caitlin’s death. Of course she does. She’s at that age where she just can’t accept an accident as an accident. She has to hold someone responsible. I need to talk about it with her. Soon.
    We watch a segment of the episode about finding the stolen paintings at the end of the war. Izzy provides additional narrative to accompany the voice-over. I’m not really listening to either of them. I was thinking that Izzy needed a shower, but now I suspect it might be myself I smell. I can’t remember what day I last showered. Tuesday? Monday?
    They go to commercial again. Izzy is telling me about a salt mine in Austria where paintings were found. I hear a door open and I glance in the direction of the hall. I wonder if it’s Haley or Caitlin, but then I know. I remember.
    I’m surprised that I could have forgotten for a whole