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the groceries.”
    “I know.” I had, but there was something suspicious about her trips to town with Viktor. Like her sudden summer job at Sparrow Road, Mama’s answers didn’t add up. No matter how many times I asked. “But why can’t you take me with you into town? And why’d we move here in the first place?”
    “For heaven’s sake, Raine!” Mama forced a little laugh. “I thought we put this all to rest. It’s a summer in the country. And I’m working, Raine. Every day but Sunday. Cooking, cleaning. Earning money.”
    “I know,” I said. I didn’t want Mama to get mad. “But why won’t you take me into town?”
    “I will.” Mama looked up at the sky. Two sheep clouds and a palm tree floated past, but Mama didn’t see them. She didn’t have Josie’s gift for finding pictures in the clouds.
    “Or I can go with Josie and Diego. They bike in all the time. And Diego found an old bike in the barn; one he said would fit me. He’s fixing up the chain. Lowering the seat.”
    “No,” Mama answered quickly. “I’ll take you in with me.” She brushed a strand of hair back from my face. “We haven’t even been at Sparrow Road two weeks. Isn’t there enough here to explore? You’re always in a hurry to discover something new. Uncover the next thing.”
    “Not a hurry,” I said. “I just want to bike to Comfort. See more than Sparrow Road.”
    “I thought you liked it here. The artists. The way you get to roam around the grounds. That writing that you do. You seem happier each day. Not so homesick for Milwaukee. Or TV.” Mama tried to joke. She was glad to have the TV gone.
    “I still miss TV,” I said, “and Grandpa Mac and Beauty.” I did, but every day my homesick faded some. I’d already written Grandpa Mac three letters, one more than he had written me. And once Mama let me call from the infirmary, alone, while she waited outside on a bench.
    “The quiet will be over soon enough,” Mama said. “For now, let’s just enjoy the peace.”
    “I do. But I still want to bike to town. See the things I’m missing. Josie says there are root beer floats, and pies, and turtle sundaes, and lemon bars, and a five-and-dime where we can trinket shop.”
    “Ah, Raine.” Mama’s voice was weary. “You’re always missing something. Or imagining what’s missing.”
    “That isn’t true,” I said. “Not always.”
    “It is.” Mama shook her head. “And you’ve been that way since the beginning. A wonderer. I think that’s why you and Josie spend so much time up in that attic. So you can think about what’s missing. All those mysteries you dream up in your mind.” Mama said that last part like I was doing something wrong.
    “I don’t know.” I took a bite of dry ham sandwich; in all the heat the bread had turned to toast. “Maybe so,” I finally said.
    I was a girl born with something missing. Someone missing, but I wasn’t going to say it. I’d learned long ago he was someone Mama wanted gone.

14
    Do you think about what’s missing? I wrote Lyman.
    Missing? Lyman leaned against the railing of the tower.
    You know, I wrote . People. Like your parents?
    Sure, he said. I wonder where they went. Why they couldn’t keep me. Anybody would. He pulled a paper airplane from his pocket and launched it on a slow drift with the breeze. We all think about what’s missing. And when someone’s gone, we have to dream them up. Same way you dream up me.
    What about your dad? I said.
    Gone. We watched his paper airplane glide down to the grass. Same as yours, I guess.
     
    “Were you close to your father?” I asked Lillian. We were reading Robert Frost out on the side porch, Lillian rocking in her Dream Chair, a gift Josie found at a garage sale in Comfort and painted with pink stars. Josie promised Lillian that when September came, she’d find a way to get the Dream Chair to St. Paul.
    “My father?” Lillian blinked. Mama said it was cataracts that made Lillian’s pupils milky.
    I stuck