THE HOSPITAL SAID MY NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WAS GONE — AND MY HUSBAND BE.GGED THEM NOT TO LET ME SEE HER. TWO WEEKS AFTER THE FU.NERAL, OUR LOYAL DOG DR.OPPED HER YELLOW CARDIGAN AT MY FEET. IT WASN’T TORN. IT SMELLED LIKE HER SHAMPOO. AND THE SLEEVES WERE STILL WET WITH PURPLE PAINT.

The one I thought she’d wear forever.

Ruby wore it to the county fair instead.

She got cotton candy on it in the first ten minutes.

I’ve never been so happy to see a stain.

Ruby asked if she could keep it.

We said no.

She painted a picture of it instead.

Purple.

Jason still sleeps in the guest room.

Some nights I stand outside that door the way I used to stand outside Ruby’s.

I haven’t gone in yet.

But I haven’t locked it either.

One night last week, he knocked on my door instead.

Our door.

He stood in the hall in his socks.

“Can I tell you what it was like?” he said.

“Those fifteen days.”

“Not so you’ll forgive me.”

“Just so you’ll know.”

I let him sit on the edge of the bed.

He told me about the shed at five in the morning.

About Ruby asking if Mom was coming yet.