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would I leave behind? Nothing. A small heap of black clothes. A cat, lovely and indifferent. These are negative thoughts, so I try to shake them off. What does it matter what I leave behind? I won’t be here to feel sad about it anyway.
    I can’t always put the right word to a feeling, but right now, I can. I feel ill and unhappy. Thinking of food doesn’t exactly help. In these situations there’s only one thing I can do. To calm myself, I read the Normal Book.
    The Normal Book is soothing in a different way than food. Not an escape, but an affirmation. Which is a word I learned from advice columns, so it’s fitting that the whole thing is made up of advice columns. When I need to, like now, I scan the fractured lines.
it may seem normal to your friend, but
you need to tell someone about his
considers her perfectionist behavior
normal, and you need to decide how
normal to have good days and bad days
at first after any major change
hero-worship of one parent over another
is normal but can still be destructive
used to be a stigma but medication is
now considered normal, or at least
can’t let the desire to be “normal”
override every other thing, Annie
it’s normal for a child of that age to ask
questions that his parents don’t want to
got a normal haircut and good clothes
like she wanted, so why won’t she take
    The Normal Book has been with me as long as I can remember. My parents knew about it, but no one else. I feel calmer now. It clears my head.
    Now that I think about it, if Grandma Damson’s ghost had come, what would I even have said to her? I doubt she would have known about Nonna’s message. Then again, maybe ghosts know everythingthere is to know. They’re sure to have more answers than I do, in any case. I’m not even sure I know the questions.
    Hours later, as I try to fall asleep, I can smell the soft, buttery scent of the shortbread. The air currents have brought it up into the farthest corner of the house. It will take all night to fade. Even though the shortbread itself is gone, I smell it as if it were right here on a platter on the nightstand. It smells warm.

C HAPTER T HREE
The Georgia Peach

    W hen my phone rings, I can’t tell if it wakes me up because I’m not sure I’ve been asleep. It never rang much before, so I fumble with the unfamiliar buttons and somehow end up on speakerphone with the unknown caller saying “Hello? Hello? Ginny?”
    “Yes, this is she.”
    “Hey, it’s me.”
    “Me?” I figure out how to switch off the speaker and put the phone to my ear.
    “Me. Amanda. Your sister.” The orange juice voice comes through.
    “Hi.”
    “Everything okay? You sound weird.”
    “You sound weird,” I reply, even though she sounds like she always does.
    “I do not. Well, maybe. I’m pretty stressed. Okay. Great. So.” She takes a deep breath. This means she’s going to start talking about something I don’t want her to talk about. Or she’s smoking. But Amanda doesn’t smoke. As I once heard Ma say of something deeply unlikely, it would be like the Pope drunk on Manischewitz.
    She says, “I wanted to have this conversation in person, but I just can’t get out of the house.”
    “Is something wrong?”
    “It’s just life,” she says. “The girls are kind of a handful today.”
    “Take your time,” I say.
    “Well, but we need to start packing things up.”
    “Why?”
    Another deep breath, blown air. “We talked about this. I have time now, I may not have time later.”
    “But why even later?” I ask. “Why can’t we just leave things where they are?”
    “We just can’t. Oh, and I meant to tell you, I don’t think she’s going to come today, but I didn’t want you to be worried if she does. If she shows up and I’m not there. Just let her in. Show her around.”
    I’m completely lost. “Who?”
    “Angelica. My friend from high school, the real estate agent. She knows the Center City market like the back of her hand. She’s going to check