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sophisticated mother in this setting as it is to imagine a sleek calla lily growing in that jumbled garden alongside the porch.
    She can’t help but think wistfully of their sun-splashed Florida home, with its contemporary furniture, central air, cool tile floors . . .
    No. Don’t think of the floor.
    She closes her eyes to block out the vision of bright red blood pooling on the light-colored tile in the foyer.
    A freak accident, the police said. Mom slipped or tripped at the top of the stairs, smashed her head open on the hard wrought-iron railing, and was probably knocked unconscious, meaning she never realized what was happening. What happened was that she broke her neck when she landed on the ceramic-tile floor in the foyer below.
    The idea of Mom slipping—or tripping—is so bizarre that Calla still has trouble accepting what happened. Mom was the most coordinated, graceful, sedate person on earth. How could it have happened?
    “So, obviously, this is the living room,” Odelia is saying. “Through here is the kitchen.”
    Calla forces her eyes open and follows her huffing and puffing grandmother through an archway. Dark-green-and-white linoleum, white metal cabinets with silver handle pulls. What’s visible of the countertop is pale green; most of it is obscured by canisters, appliances, a row of cookbooks and one of cereal boxes, a mug tree, a couple of empty vases, pens, paper, more magazines. The outdated fridge and stove are green as well, but they’re more of an olive color. And yet another shade of green twines its way across the ivy-patterned wallpaper.
    “Half bath here”—Odelia jerks open a door just long enough for Calla to spot a powder-blue toilet and matching sink in a tiny room with blue-and-silver foil wallpaper—“and this is my room.” Odelia leads Calla through an open door into a bright room whose walls are mostly glass windows on three sides.
    There are no curtains or shades, and the walls, trim, and ceiling are painted beige. On the floor is nubby neutral wall-to-wall carpeting, and the room is surprisingly—for this house, anyway—devoid of clutter. The only furniture is a trio of wingback chairs that seem oddly placed, all facing each other in the center of the room. On the lone table, at arm’s reach, are a box of tissues, a couple of candles, and a tape recorder.
    “This is your room?” Calla asks. “But where do you sleep?”
    “Oh, it isn’t my bedroom . That’s upstairs. Come on—I’ll show you yours, too. You’re going to be in your mom’s old room.”
    Mom’s old room?
    Calla immediately forgets about the one they’re in and dogs her grandmother’s footsteps back through the kitchen to the stairs. Predictably, the treads are worn and they creak as Calla and her grandmother ascend. Odelia is panting with exertion by the time they reach the second floor, where the ceiling is so low that Calla would be able to touch it from her tiptoes. The bare floor planks are wider, darker, scarred with age. The layout is simple: there are three doors off the upstairs hall. One, straight ahead, leads to a bathroom—Calla can see the edge of a clawfoot tub through the open door. But she isn’t interested in that.
    Nor is she all that interested in Odelia’s room, to the right. She barely glances at the patchwork quilt–covered double bed; another overflowing bookshelf; and formal, antique-looking furniture that could only have been inherited, as it clearly isn’t Odelia’s style.
    Finally, it’s time to cross the hall to the opposite door, which, unlike the other two, is closed.
    “This is where you’ll be.” Odelia reaches for the knob. “If you want privacy, close the door and I promise I won’t come barging in on you.”
    “Er—thanks.”
    “But if you don’t mind company, leave it open, and I’ll know I can pop in. I was thinking it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to around here for a change.”
    Calla nods, eager to see the room. Odelia is taking her