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weeks, since Nana died. She turned her head but I saw that she was trying to bat her tears away, blinking her eyes like crazy.
    â€œHey,” my mother said suddenly. “Do you want to go with me Sunday? Into the city to help Poppy. I think he’s probably going to move to Florida year-round soon. Not just fall and winter. Retirement, you know. And Aunt Gert has a place down there too.”
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    My mother’s face is so pretty. If I had to pick a movie star that she looked like, it would be Amy Irving, Steven Spielberg’s first wife, and not just because my mother’s name is Amy too. It would be because of her hair, mostly, I suppose. My mother’s hair curls in ringlets, golden brown ringlets. Her face is round, like a soft heart.
    Her eyes are light brown, like mine.
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    â€œOkay,” I said. I was lying down with my head on my pillow. “I’ll go with you.”
    She smiled. Her eyes were dry now. “Want me to tuck you in?” she asked.
    I hadn’t been tucked in in a long time. “Okay.”
    There isn’t much to the ritual. Really, it isn’t anything more than pulling the covers up to my chin and then patting them down around my body, my feet, and up to my shoulders. I never liked my covers tucked under the mattress. My legs like a little “elbow room” so I can shift around while I get comfortable without pulling out my blankets. My mother knew how to do it just right, so I was tucked in but not confined. Comfortable but not trapped.
    Then she always used to say the same thing: Tight as a knish.
    Only she pronounces it like its two syllables, almost. K-nish , but not exactly. When I was little, I used to wait till she left theroom, then I would practice saying it in the dark to myself.
    Kenish. Nish. Kinish. K-nish.
    But what is a knish? Something to wear? Something to eat? I just knew it was something Jewish, like shayna maideleh and oiy vey ; something Nana probably said to my mother when she was a little girl.
    I just never thought to ask.
    â€œTight as a knish,” my mother said now, but she didn’t turn off my light. She stood in my doorway with her hand on the switch. “Caroline, start thinking of something you might like. Something of Nana’s.”
    I guess I could have told my mother about the necklace right then, but I was afraid she’d think it was silly. Or she’d say something like she said to Rachel’s mother, that it was hypocritical, like having a bat mitzvah.
    â€œOkay, sweetie? Something to remember her by. Maybe one of her needlepoint pictures or one of those little figurines she collected.”
    She flipped off my light.
    â€œOkay, Mom,” I said into the darkness, but I didn’t have to think.
    I knew exactly what I wanted.

12
    Putting on Her Face
    The first time I ever got to see my nana without her makeup on, I was five years old. I will never forget it. It was the first time I got to sleep at my grandparents’ apartment by myself. Sam wasn’t even born yet.
    I was taking my bath in the tub in the morning, even though at home I took my bath at night. I remember how I loved the black and white tiles in their tiny bathroom, the matching towels, and the fuzzy cover on the toilet seat.
    â€œCan I come in?” My grandmother knocked on the door. She was already in.
    â€œSure, Nana,” I said.
    My grandmother was still in her underwear and I think I was more embarrassed than she was. She looked like she was outfitted in white armor, a big, huge bra and massive underwear combined into one, only her arms and legs sticking out. I couldn’t imagine how she had gotten herself into it. But she had.
    â€œYou know we can’t go anywhere until I put on my face.” She always said that. She had to “put on her face.” Without her makeup my nana was like a completely different person. Her lips were faded and thinner, her eyes were smaller, and her eyebrows were totally