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out with the heat. It was clean, and cold, and unforgiving. The mix, like most things dark and light, was magical. Eleanor felt herself begin to slip into that place. The comfort place—part dream or memory—she didn’t know, and didn’t much care. It was just lovely. She was at a beach. Not a European beach. Not the south of France where she’d learned to swim. A pebbled beach. The seagulls were singing and swing sets in the background were squeaking. The lapping waves touched her hands as she did cartwheel after cartwheel across the beach. The sights and smells of this place always calmed her. Slowed her pulse. Made her happy.
    But too soon Eleanor’s feet got sweaty and her neck began to pinch. She sat up. She was surprised, then nervous, and finally, excited to be where she was. Her head throbbed. A hangover caused by the enormous amount of decision making the night before. She stretched her arms up over her head and listened for sounds, noises of a busy grandmother she’d have to get to know. But there were no noises in the apartment. Eleanor did smell coffee. The aroma hung in the air, warm and inviting. Her hat sat on the pillow next to her. She grabbed it and put it on. If ever I needed you, she thought. “Merry Christmas, hat.”
    Eleanor got up, intending to find something to wear and then figure out how she was going to deal with this crazy decision she’d made when the lingering fish and garlic smells hit her. She ran out into the hallway but couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time. She threw up on the oriental runner.
    “Fantastic,” she said.
    Eleanor wanted to clean it up, but the thought of it made her gag again. She’d have to find Mimi.
    “Mimi?” she yelled out as she felt her way along the walls and then around the entrance to the living room. Silence.
    She walked out through an arched doorway into the living area. It was warm, but Eleanor felt cold in her bones, and she was wearing Carmen’s summer nightgown. She took a folded afghan off the couch and wrapped herself. She held the crocheted wool to her nose and breathed in the history. Whose hands made this? Were there babies babbling while it was being created? Meals being made? Laughter? Tears?
    As she thought about the history of her family, Eleanor heard the crying again. The same sound from the night before. It was coming from the kitchen.
    “Mimi?”
    She walked through the dining room and into the kitchen but no one was there. She went out into the back hall. No one.
    “That’s odd,” she said to herself. And it was odd, but also thrilling.
    The back door was open a crack. The cold air felt good on her face.
    She headed outside, the afghan trailing behind her, and found herself in a walled, perfectly square garden. Eleanor put her bare feet in the snow. The cold against her skin tamed the nausea.
    She sat on a nearby bench and surveyed the area. The sun was so bright on the snow she had to cover her eyes. She could just make out little walkways here and there. A few religious statues nestled between twigs. Bits of black gardener’s plastic peeked out from under the snow cover.
    “Merry Christmas!” said Anthony, throwing open the aluminum screen door so that it slammed against the brick wall of the building. A little snow fell off Itsy and Fee’s kitchen windowsill. A tiny avalanche for Eleanor to focus on so that she wouldn’t get sick again. Not now, out here, in front of him.
    “Not talking?”
    Eleanor cleared her throat. “No.”
    “Suit yourself. You should get a pad like Itsy. And some shoes. It’s cold out here.” Anthony began to shovel the few inches of snow off of the walkways, stopping to sweep the remaining snow off of the lower windowsills and the heads of saints with his hands. After he brushed off the saints he made the sign of the cross and pulled a gold crucifix out from beneath his heavy coat to kiss it.
    “Religious much?”
    “Cold much?” said Anthony with a smile. “You should really go