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the two rooms. He tells her he misses and loves her. The words sound soft and comforting. He has never told me either message with the same amount of conviction. I should be sad, but I’m not. In a strange way, it gives me hope. Hope that there is some part of him capable of real emotion, even if it’s not toward me.
    To avoid further cross-examination, Ray dodges me for the rest of the night. So I spend the evening in my room. Alone. I’m used to it.
    Despite a day that is completely unexplainable, I try to adhere to my normal routine. Since I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m crazy, and the Lady in Black never existed, I unlock and open the window for the first time in weeks, allowing a warm breeze to roll through, ruffling the curtains.
    As I do every night, I blast some music and ransack my closet for a suitable outfit to wear to school the following day. After much deliberation, I settle on a pair of black jeans and a lace embellished shirt. For shoes, I choose a pair of low pumps. Graffiti art wraps from the tip of the toe to the heel. A few months ago, I bought them from a street artist in the Miami Arts District. Ray argued the selection, but of course, I bought them anyway.
    I try everything on. When I step in front of the mirror, the ensemble pleases me. “Ray will see now just how great these shoes look,” I mouth to myself. I twist in front of my reflection with my hands on my hips.
    He has no imagination. He also holds no resemblance to me. Somehow I managed to dodge every dominant trait the man claims. My dark brown hair and athletic build were inherited from Mom. Curiously, no one claims the color of my eyes—a soft violet that people often mistake for blue.
    Or—maybe—Mom did have violet eyes. I don’t know for sure, and I have yet to ask Ray. Not that he would answer without a fight.
    I own one black and white photo of my mother. I glance over at it where it sits on my dresser. Her striking resemblance to me is a comfort.
    In the photo, she holds me in her lap. Her laugh is frozen in time. My chubby baby cheeks are smeared with melted, chocolate Easter bunny. I remember her cold, silk pajamas brushing my skin, her warm breath on my head as she kissed me, and her fingers brushing my baby fine hair. That memory, I know, is my own. I have proof.
    How different would my life be if she hadn’t died? Would Ray have settled in one spot? You’d think he was running from something if he hadn’t been moving for work.
    I glance over at the boxes, still stacked in the corner, yet to be unpacked from our recent move. Miami Beach is only the latest in a long chain of former homes: New York, Rome, Boston, Portland, D.C., and too many small, podunk towns in-between to remember.
    Despite the random friends I’ve made all over the world from Ray’s haphazard relocation exercises, we rely on each other. I never intended to hurt him today. My guilt is growing, and I’m fighting a lump in my throat. It’s not his fault I’m going crazy.
    To ease the tenseness, I need to apologize. After leaving my room, I tiptoe down the stairs toward his home office. I decide to spy on him first, to gauge whether his mood will allow for an interruption from his current enemy.
    When I near his office, I realize Ray is on the phone. As I peek through the crack of the door, he appears shaken. His face is buried in his cupped hands. The phone precariously sits, crunched between his ear and shoulder.
    He whispers. Some parts of the conversation are inaudible. “I think you’re right... it’s time for her to come stay with you... something’s happened... yes, yes, I know... she needs discipline... just like her mother... I’ve failed...”

::5::
Chicago
     
    Ray waits weeks to tell me he is sending me to live with Aunt Mona in Chicago, and I know why. This allows less time for me to react. Even though I know the news is coming, I’m hurt when he tells me. I fight with him over the decision, but he’s already made up his