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mother’s arms gently, looking to her for some sort of answer.
    “Mom, please…” I can only think of my brother. My pulse builds in speed and force.
    “It’s, um, Mark and Camille, sweetie,” she says finally, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. It takes me a moment to place faces with the names, but when I do, I’m floored.
    “Cherie’s parents? What happened?” I repeat.
    “They – there was ice on the road, and, I don’t know. They say the car skidded, and slipped, and it went over the guard rail.” She has that look on her face, the look that says she blames herself.
For what
? I wonder.
She feels guilty for having Christmas Eve dinner on Christmas Eve? It’s not her fault it snowed!
    “Are they okay?” I ask hesitantly, although I know by everyone’s reaction that this is a stupid question.
    A police officer steps forward. “Son, I’m sorry to say your aunt and uncle were killed in the crash. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I’m stunned into silence and stare at the cop, slack-jawed.
Killed
. He definitely said killed. Those two people that were here tonight, singing songs and laughing, they’re gone. Dead.
    No,
killed
.
    The cop pats me on the shoulder, and I know I don’t deserve the sympathy.
Aunt and uncle?
I met them once, at the wedding, for about six minutes.
    I didn’t even speak to them tonight, didn’t even know their daughter was famous actress, and Cherie was such a tornado of mean that I made a special effort not to spend more time with them than I’d had to. Now I’ll never have a chance to see them again. No one will, not even their daughter.
    Suddenly, that thought arrests my mind. “Where’s Cherie?”
    Mom coos at me, “She’s in the other room, honey. The officers brought her here; she’s too young to stay alone. Maybe you can talk to her? I’m sure she’s very upset and might want some company.”
    I nod stiffly and follow my mom as she points toward the living room. I don’t see Cherie at first, as if she blends with the expensive furniture that no one is supposed to sit on. Not only is she perched on one of my mom’s fine satin sofas, but she’s holding a glass of water. Food and beverages are supposed to be another no-no in this room. Clearly, tragedy knows no rules.
    “Um, hi Cherie,” I call softly.
    She looks up at me, stone-faced, her green eyes slicing through me. Her features are so small and delicate, like a China doll. Her cheeks are ashen and her eyes are a little glassy, as if there is a giant waterfall of tears on the brink of gushing through them. Despite all of this, she still manages to look glittery like Hollywood with her trendy clothes and her sparkly makeup. She’s dressed markedly different from the Cherie I saw at dinner, not as prim and proper but more risqué. Had she been out somewhere when this happened?
    “Hey.” She mouths the word more than she says it.
    “I’m…”
I’m really stupid
, I think as I struggle to find the right words to say. “I heard what happened. I’m really sorry.”
    And just like that, her face crinkles, her dam breaks, and she’s in tears. Full-on, face-in-hands, body-quaking, sobbing. I stumble over myself and my words.
    “Oh, uh, okay – I – I’m sorry,” I sputter and make my way to her side.
What did I say?
She was fine a moment ago!
I look around; I don’t have a tissue or a napkin or anything I can give her.
    She doesn’t need it. She swivels and buries her face into my chest. At first, I’m frozen and incapable of thought. Cherie Belle is practically in my lap, hysterical and latching onto me like I matter. My stomach twists. What do I do? Am I allowed to touch her? My inner-gentleman, the one who’s used to handling crisis situations, is oddly slow to respond. I make a careful hoop around her small body with one arm.
    “How?” she whimpers. “How could this happen?”
    You must mean: how could this happen in a world as perfect as yours?
I’m shocked at my own