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can remember, I have always been afraid of the dark. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of or something I openly admit to. Lola always had her suspicions, and my dad sort of knows, but my mom was the only one who ever really seemed to understand. Without saying much or making a big deal, she always made sure there were night-lights throughout the house. If a bulb burned out, she would quickly replace it.
    But as evening comes tonight, I go around and turn off every single night-light—the one in my bedroom, my bathroom, the hallway, the kitchen, the laundry room. I turn them all off. And then I turn off all the other lights in the house too, until the whole place is pretty much black. Black like I feel inside.
    I slowly pick my way through the house now. Finding my way into the living room, I go over to where the streetlight seeps through the cracks in the blinds on the front window, but I close the blinds tight, blocking even that bit of light out. And then I just sit there on the couch... in darkness, in the silence. And before long I discover that my fear of the dark is gone. Completely gone.
    But instead of feeling relieved, I am disappointed. Almost as if I’ve been cheated, like one more piece of my life has been stolen from me. Or maybe it’s simply been replaced. Because instead of fear, the only thing I feel now is a deep, dark, heavy sense of sadness. It presses down on me like a boulder crushing the life and breath right out of me. I don’t know how I can survive this much pain.
    Every once in a while I am jolted by the jangling sound of the phone, but I still have the volume on the answering machine turned down so I can’t hear any of the messages being left. And anyway, it’s like they’re all the same, expressing shock and regret over and over like my parents have dozens of close friends and relatives when I know for certain they have few. But it’s like everyone is suddenly my mom’s very best friend.
    Neighbors and people from our church have brought over food. Like they think I can eat. I just nod and take the dishes, listen to them expressing sympathy, and then without asking them into the house, I close the door, take the food into the kitchen, and shove it into the refrigerator. I wouldn’t bother to do that except my dad might be able to eat when he comes home.
    I’m fairly certain I’ll never be hungry again.
    I feel dead inside. Dead and hopeless. I wish I could pray. I know I should pray. But it’s like I don’t know how to do that anymore. Like the very act of speaking to a God who could allow something like this to happen is impossible, unfathomable, ridiculous. What would I even say? Would I shake my fist and accuse him of sleeping on the job? Or would I tell him I’m sorry, confessing that my lies cost my mother her life? Would I beg God to take it all back? To turn back the clock and bring my mother back to life? Would I bargain with God? Offer to do what, give what? Even if I could think of something worthwhile, what good would it do? God won’t reverse time.
    I jump when the doorbell rings. Leaping to my feet and crashing into the heavy oak coffee table, I knock off a bowl of silk flowers and fall onto my knees. I have no idea who is at the door, but for the second time today I get the idea that it could be my mom out there.
    I suddenly think that all the events of the day could be just a big mistake, a misunderstanding, or even a hallucination on my part. I feel sure that my mom has come home and she can’t find her key, and she’ll be standing out there with a sweet but sheepish smile. I flick on a light, rush to the door, and, without even checking to see who it is, fling open the door, fully expecting to see my mother. Ready to hug her, welcome her home, and confess to last night’s indiscretion and beg her forgiveness. Instead it’s my mom’s “slightly functional” sister, Kellie. Clutching her purse in one hand and a hankie in the other. And her eyes are