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instead, I told Him all the things I would have told her, a sort of cosmic joke on Him. Because He allowed her to die, He had to suffer my endless chatter. But gradually I stopped sharing. And sometime, by high school, I’d mostly stopped praying too. Not altogether. Communing with God was a hard habit to break, and from time to time I would catch myself blurting out—silently—a quick prayer. But even those brief petitions eventually stopped being regular. And they stopped being intentional.
    It wasn’t that I no longer believed, but I decided that God wanted us to take as much responsibility for ourselves as we possibly could. For me, that meant concentrating on academics. On the laws of physics and chemical equations and algebraic formulas. On absolutes that made sense. The idea of God didn’t offend my rationality. What did was that there were noformulas and equations I could count on except for the laws of science. I decided I needed to take charge of me.
    As I shoved my things into my suitcase, an empty eeriness settled over the house, and its creaks and groans startled me. I quickly finished packing and zipped my bag. Hurrying down the hall, I heard Dad’s voice call my name. My heart raced as I turned and walked into his bedroom, but the sound I’d heard was only a branch from the maple tree scraping against his window.
    By the time I had slung my bags in the back of my Honda CR-V, dusk had fallen. The windmill was statue still, and beyond the backyard the orchard darkened. Even so, the ordered trees offered comfort. I stepped toward them, longing to walk between the wide rows where I played as a child while Dad worked. But then that moment of twilight, where the world is neither light nor dark, lit upon the orchard and grief swept over me again, stealing my breath and leaving me weak. I turned and climbed into my car instead.
    Fifteen minutes later, after having driven south on I-5, backtracking to the coffee shop by the Woodburn outlet mall, I powered up my laptop and googled “Amielbach”—unsuccessfully. My search for “Abraham Sommers” produced several possibilities, including a couple with ties to Switzerland—although none to Pennsylvania or Indiana—but as I followed them, I couldn’t determine which would be associated with the box or Amielbach or with me. It was quite the puzzle.
    Giving up on that for now, I quickly skimmed my emails. There were a few work-related messages, including several condolences from colleagues and a photo of a baby I’d delivered the month before, sent by the new father with a sweet thank-you. I filed it with all the other pictures, and then I closed my computer, picked up my latte, and headed for the car, moving past the series of store windows with their shiny displays.
    In all honesty, I wasn’t a big shopper. It was hard to break my childhood frugality. I’d decorated my apartment nicely but inexpensively, and with the exception of a single pair of jeans, I didn’t go for designer clothes. As I moved past the row of outlets now, however, I could feel my steps slowing. Finally I came to a stop, deciding that I could afford to treat myself to something nice for a change.
    I’d never been inside the Coach purse store, even though women at work talked about the deals they had found there. I just couldn’t bringmyself to spend oodles of money on a bag when I could get one for a fraction of the cost somewhere else. I’d grown up with simple dresses, practical shoes, and inexpensive purses, but today I felt that spending some money on myself might make me feel better. Plus, it would be nice to have a designer bag if I did travel. Or if I met my birth mother. In an instant I picked back up on my fantasies from high school. As I walked through the doorway of the Coach store, I imagined meeting her. She’d be happily married by now, of course. Living in the suburbs of Philly. A professional woman. A lawyer or financial planner or something like that. It was hard