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tweed again. As she heads for the hallway, her steps feel more confident. “The bathroom,” she says, snapping on the light.
    Emily points to the fish on the walls. “Yikes.”
    â€œOh, I know. Aren’t they awful? I try not to look them in the eye.” Charlotte laughs, swinging open the lacquered bedroom door. “And last but not least.”
    The moment Emily steps into the bedroom, Charlotte is struck by what a comfort it is to have her in it. These four walls have already contained so much anxiety, so much fear, so many exaggerated dreams and overblown nightmares, that the mere fact of Emily’s presence punctures some of that unreality somehow, connects the room to the real world. Next time she’s scared at night, Charlotte thinks, she’ll remember Emily being here.
    Gratefully, she watches as her daughter moves around the room. She is as thorough as a prospective buyer: peeking in the closet, peering through the plastic slats of the blinds. Charlotte tries to see the room as her daughter would, but has spent so many countless hours staring at every crack and crevice that it’s impossible to view it now through fresh eyes.
    â€œCool fan,” Emily says, swatting at the gold chain dangling from one of the ceiling fan’s wooden fins.
    â€œIt is nice, isn’t it? Not too much of a breeze, but enough. Enough to keep me cool if I need it.”
    In truth, Charlotte rarely uses it. The whirring noise is too distracting. Like the Dream Machine, it’s capable of concealing other, more important, sounds.
    â€œDo you like the hardwood floor?” Charlotte asks, as Emily wanders toward the dresser. “The realtor said hardwood is popularthese days. At first I wasn’t sure, but it looks nice, don’t you think?”
    â€œYeah. It’s nice.”
    Emily hasn’t commented on the Dream Machine sitting by the foot of the bed or
The Miracle of Mindfulness
on the bedside table. Instead, she pokes listlessly in Charlotte’s jewelry box. Charlotte is sure her daughter has no interest in her bland clipon earrings and unassuming gold chains. In the mirror above the dresser, she has a perfect view of Emily’s blank expression. Something is clearly bothering her, something more than a long ride. She’s lacking her usual spunk, her spirit—her engagement with the world.
    â€œHoney,” Charlotte ventures. The chain from the ceiling fan swings slightly. “Is everything all right?”
    Emily doesn’t look up, doesn’t change expression, as if she’s been expecting this. She fingers a knotted clump of necklace chains. “I’m fine.”
    â€œAre you sure? Are you tired from your drive? I could make you some tea. Or coffee? I could make you coffee.”
    â€œThat’s okay.”
    â€œHow about a nice hot bath? I bought some lavender bubbles. And something called a bath glove.”
    Emily looks up. “You use a bath glove?”
    â€œWell, no. I bought it for you.”
    â€œOh.”
    In the mirror, Charlotte sees a smile.
    â€œRemember last time you were here, you were taking lots of baths? Do you—are you still?”
    Emily shrugs. Without her usual volume and energy, she looks smaller. A wisp of a thing, really. Her corduroys hang loose on her hips, boots are weighing down her feet. Under the bandanna,her naturally big eyes look enormous, like the starving children on those infomercials.
    â€œIt’s just that”—Charlotte inhales—“you don’t seem like yourself.”
    Emily clicks her tongue ring slowly, once, twice, like a metronome, as if measuring her response. Then she gives the tongue a decisive click and claps the lid shut on the jewelry box. “It’s all good,” she says, turning and smiling broadly. “I’m good. Just starving. Got anything to eat?”
    Charlotte stashes the arugula in the produce bin—she’ll have to use it during