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her room. Suddenly, it occurred to me that Mom’s secret made us special—better than the other members of our family. Her love for me seemed as safe and contained, that evening, as if it were tucked inside the Kinney’s shoe box.
     
     
    The letters came every few days and after that first one, my mother always intercepted, handing them over in the silent afternoons, or placing them, barely visible, between stacks of my clean underwear. The envelopes were all postmarked “Orinda, CA.” I knew Orinda because it was the next town over from my grandparents’ house, where we vacationed each summer. Mr. Robert drew pictures of mountains and clown faces, cowboys and barns. He called me his “Little Twerp,” and told me that he’d once been a cowhand, of sorts, before becoming a salesman. He wrote that he’d lived in London and had seen Elton John having tea. “I bet that would have given you a thrill, eh?” He said my mother reminded him of Audrey Hepburn, and promised that we’d take a real trip soon, someplace where I could ride a horse for hours. My mother repeated that I needed to hide these letters, along with hers. But I wanted to believe my letters were distinctive, so I began hoarding them in my own box—a carved pine jewelry box my father had given me—which I stuffed in the top of my bedroom closet. Once or twice, I sat down at my desk to compose an answer, but each time I felt utterly blank and exhausted.
    I wondered if my mother’s secret was making her tired, too. She began spending late afternoons curled on the carpet in the corner of the living room, a sweater bunched beneath her head. Sometimes she’d wake long enough to say hello, or ask about my school day, but before I could answer she’d close her eyes again, and soon her mouth would fall open crookedly. I felt a little nauseous, seeing her twitch on the living room floor like a cat squeezed into the last patch of sunlight. It was warm as a greenhouse next to those corner windows, and the air was dense with particles of dust, like a swarm of sleepy gnats. My mother had forbidden Dad to put any of his things in that room, and except for her ebony grand piano, there was nothing but yellow carpeting and sun. More than once, I wanted to lie down next to her, but it seemed dangerous. I had a strange feeling that if I curled beside her, we might sleep for days. Instead, I’d crouch down to stare at the tiny rows of blond hairs on her upper lip, the freckles on her neck, below her right ear. Watching her like that, my cheeks and eyelids felt heavy with sadness.
    Mom was usually fluttering about doing three things at once, filling out makeup orders or talking to Gram on the phone while stirring the red bean chili, laughing her high, musical laugh. Sitting in the Sabbath School room, listening to Mrs. Sullivan talk about the Last Days, Ali and I often heard Mom’s clear soprano rise above the rest of the choir in the sanctuary overhead. We’d smile, then look away from each other to avoid laughing. Still, the sharp knowledge of her presence above kept me from becoming too frightened by Mrs. Sullivan’s apocalyptic stories.
    I tried not to look at Iguana Woman’s face as she spoke about Jesus on the fisted cloud, focusing instead on her long middle toes hovering at the edges of her sandals, like drops of water about to spill. But no matter what I did, the stories sprang to life in my mind while Ali and I followed the other kids through the church lobby. By the time we reached the main sanctuary, slid into our second-row pew with Mom, my head would be bursting with pictures—mountains crumbling to crush the wicked, hair singeing and faces melting below hundreds of winged Mrs. Sullivans who circled the dark, holy cloud.
    More and more often, during the summer of ’74, I’d escape midsermon and sneak out through the huge front doors into a flood of smoggy sunshine. I’d take off shoes and stockings to walk barefoot between rows of empty cars in