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matter where the new furniture stood or how fresh the paint smelled, how pristine and neat and clean the room seemed to be, my mother could not hide the memories of what had happened.
    In the middle of another rearrangement, Claude finished his phone call and came in to rescue the men from a further repetition. My mother puffed on her cigarette, the stains on her cheeks fading while Claude tipped the men in cash and sent them on their way. The furniture lay where the men had set it down, the love seat off to one side, the two armchairs awkwardly grouped.
    “Sorry, that was an important call,” said Claude. He stillhadn’t returned to work since my nighttime ride, saying he didn’t want to leave my mother alone when things were so uncertain. Instead, his papers and files spread like a fungus over every surface in the living room while he spoke on the phone to nameless individuals, taking up so much space that not even three floors and a garden was enough to escape his overreaching presence.
    “Aren’t they all important?” she said.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I’m going upstairs.”
    “That’s your answer for everything,” said Claude. “Go upstairs, lie down. Look at that notebook, over and over again.”
    Silence.
    “Did you take it?” she asked Claude, her voice low and rough.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Claude, sounding frustrated and tired. “It’s been weeks. I thought …” He paused, and maybe he took her hand, or reached for her, held her by the shoulders. When he spoke again, his tone changed. “Your daughter needs you. I found her alone with Alex last night, in the garden. I’m sure it was innocent, but she needs her mother right now.”
    “Don’t you dare use Rosaura to manipulate me,” she said, nostrils flaring. “Did you take it?” she asked again. “I can’t find it.”
    “Take what? That old notebook?” More silence. My mother was outside my range of vision, but I could see Claude’s profile, his searching, thoughtful expression. “I wish you’d let me buy you a real sketchbook. Throw that one away.”
    “No,” she said. “No, no. I have to find it.” She movedinto the dining area, where our eyes clashed before she went upstairs. I hid behind the magazine’s glossy pages. Claude returned to his files and folders, picking up the phone to make another call.
    Later, when everyone was asleep, I slipped out to the garden. The wind pushed at my back as I crawled through the bushes to retrieve the notebook. I ran back to the house as if wolves nipped at my heels, hugging it to my chest.
    I went to Claude’s dark cherry desk. I tugged at the top, but it was locked. Getting down on my knees, I flattened the notebook as much as I could and slipped it underneath the drawers. If I hid the notebook there and my mother found it, she would blame Claude instead of me.
    Relieved to have it hidden again, I headed for the stairs, but the bright white of the front room caught my eye. It looked different in the moonlight, and there was a hum coming from inside. Heart pounding, I stepped closer to look and then relaxed. My mother or Claude had left a couple of fans plugged in and running, probably to air out the smell of fresh paint that clung to everything.
    Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and stepped all the way in.
    As soon as I did, I heard a car screech to a halt, followed by a banging on the front door. My father’s ghost stood in the entryway as if he’d just come in.
    “I stood here,” he said. He wasn’t looking at me but at the floor and the door and the walls and the window as if trying to remember. “This is where I stood. And then I moved over there.” He pointed, walking across the room. “And she stood over there, and he was there too. And we were all here.”
    He put his hands in his hair, looking wild, until hestopped and straightened, and I realized something was different from the last time I had seen him. No wound, no