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know why I named you Clarissa?” she asked, glancing in my direction. When she wanted it to appear she was looking me in the eye, she stared at my nose.
    I nodded. “From the book.”
    I had been told that Dad had read Mrs. Dalloway to my mother when she was on bed rest.
    “I named you after a book, yes,” she said. “But not after Mrs. Dalloway. I named you after Clarissa by Samuel Rich-ardson.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    “I didn’t want to tell you until you were old enough because I was afraid you wouldn’t understand. It’s more complex than that. I named you after this Clarissa with the hope that you’d rewrite history.”
    “Wow,” I said. I leaned against the wall for support.
    “I’ve been meaning to have this talk with you. I’m glad we’re having it now.” She smiled at her desk.
    I stared at her.

    “If a man tries something on you, force yourself to pee. Use your legs—that’s where your weight is. Gouge his eyes with your fingers. Punch his ears with your fists. Ruin his ability to see and hear. And then run.”
    When I opened my mouth, I made a point of speaking slowly, rationally, the way I addressed Jeremy when he was having a tantrum. “I’ll remember that,” I said.
    Silence.
    I looked over her shoulder at what she’d traced in the salt and pepper. I thought it would be a clue, a postscript to what she’d told me. In large capital letters, she had scrawled: BUY MILK.

6.
    When Dad came home that evening, he looked after Jeremy while my mother and I went to the Poughkeepsie mall to do our Christmas shopping. After picking out a sweat suit for Dad and a telescope for Jeremy, we separated so we could buy each other gifts. We would meet up at the bakery at seven.
    I went to the Body Shop to buy my mother bath oil. I inhaled the various scents. I asked the man behind the counter if I could get a sixteen-ounce bottle of vanilla bath oil. Gita always smelled of vanilla.
    “Is it for you?” he asked.
    “No, it’s for my mom,” I said. The pride in my voice surprised me.

    “Well, this is a nice gift,” he said. “You’ll never see your mom after giving her this. She’ll be spending all her time in the bath—reading, eating, sleeping even. You can get yourself into all sorts of trouble while she’s not around.” He winked.
    I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes after seven. “Can you make it shower gel instead?” I asked.
    “Sure, honey,” he said. He took his time formulating the concoction, and then wrapped the bottle in pink cellophane and tied it with lavender ribbons. I knew I’d have to rewrap it when I got home; my mother thought Christmas presents should look like they were specifically for Christmas.
    I got to the bakery late, at a quarter after.
    The woman behind the counter noticed me. “Are you looking for a lady you were supposed to meet here?” she asked. She was wearing a red T-shirt silk-screened with two fried eggs, one over each breast.
    I nodded.
    “She said to tell you she got tired of waiting.”

7.
    I called Dad, and he and Jeremy came to pick me up. Dad said my mother wasn’t at home when he left, and she hadn’t called. “I’m sure she’ll be there when we get back,” he added.
    At home, there was no sign of my mother’s car. Nor was she in the house. Dad sat on the couch, holding a pillow over his face. The pillow was orange, with long, thin tassels, one of

    which was in his mouth. He put the pillow down in his lap. “Can you pass me the phone?” he said, though it wasn’t far from him.
    I brought it to him, and he dialed and then covered the mouthpiece. “It’s the good Chinese restaurant. What do you want?”

8.
    The next morning, when she hadn’t returned, Dad called her California sisters. They hadn’t heard from her. He called Fern, who hadn’t, either. Then he called the police. “How long do you have to wait before reporting someone missing?” he asked.
    Two detectives came to our house that afternoon. I described for