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bedroom.
    After opening the window as wide as it could go, I flopped on the bed. A warm breeze washed over me, and with it came thoughts of Momma. I wondered what that brief interval between life and death was like. Did her life flash before her eyes? Did she see the face of Jesus? Was she in heaven like the preacher had said, or was Momma’s place in the afterworld a giant-size Goodwill store packed with pageant dresses, prom gowns, and thousands of dyed-to-match shoes—all of them in her size?
    Did heaven have a special place reserved for people who were mentally ill, or, if you were mentally ill and died, did you automatically get well? With my hands clutched beneath my chin, I said a prayer. “Dear God, I’m so sorry my mother died. I hope it’s not my fault. I was mad at her for a long time, and when I wished she was dead awhile ago, I didn’t mean it. I swear I didn’t. She wasn’t very happy, and I think maybe she’s better off with you. If she’s not already there, will you help her find her way to heaven? She’s not very good at directions.”
    I also prayed heaven didn’t have any beauty pageants.
    I woke with a start, feeling sweaty and disoriented. When I rolled over and got a glimpse of the clock on my nightstand, it was 12:55 in the afternoon. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and scooted to the edge of the bed.
    While I was buckling my shoes I heard the crunch of gravel. From my bedroom window I watched the most beautiful car I’d ever seen roll to a stop. It was a shiny plum red with a white convertible top and a big, gleaming chrome grill. The afternoon sun sent fireworks of light sparking off the hood ornament—a miniature silver angel with open wings and her arms stretched out in front of her, palms forward, as if she were ready to push aside anything that dared get in her way. The driver’s side door opened and a round little woman slid from the seat. She was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, and on her head was a matching hat with a long, brown-speckled feather sprouting from its side.
    The squeak of the screen door sounded as my dad stepped onto the porch. “Tallulah? I can’t believe it. You drove all the way up from Georgia?”
    She came across the lawn at a brisk clip. “Yes, I surely did. And this has been an ill-fated trip from the get-go. Traffic was just awful. I spent the night in Columbus and planned on being here early this morning, but I ended up out in the country. Someplace called Or-well. But anyway, here I am. I’m sorry I missed the funeral, Carl. Was there a big turnout?”
    Dad didn’t answer that question.
    Moments later I heard her soft murmuring from the living room. Dad spoke in clipped consonants and hard-edged vowels that bumped into walls and faded before I could make out exactly what he’d said. I knew they were talking about Momma, but the last few days had worn me out and I didn’t want to think about her anymore. I closed the door, lay on my bed, and read Treasure Island .
    After reading several chapters, I looked at the clock. More than an hour had passed and they were still talking. I slid off the bed and soundlessly opened the door.
    “I wish I knew. Maybe she tripped,” Dad said with a groan. “Or maybe she—”
    “Carl, from what you’re telling me, I think Camille suffered from psychosis.”
    I retreated into my bedroom and pulled out my dictionary. My chest felt heavy when I read:
    “ Psychosis: noun; a severe mental disorder in which thought and emotions are so impaired that contact with reality is lost. Characterized by bizarre behavior, hallucinations, and disorganized thought. Genetic inheritance can play an important part in close biological relationships. This is true of both schizophrenia and manic-depressive illness . . .”
    I stared at those words for a long time and whispered, “Genetic inheritance.”
    Dad and the woman began raising their voices. I closed the dictionary, tiptoed into the hallway, and knelt by the