“Eric has asked for the guitar,” Andrea said. “We gave it to Eric.”

This was not true. Andrea had asked Eric if he wanted the guitar, and Eric said he’d have to think about it. When Andrea asked him again, Eric said he didn’t want the guitar. He wasn’t musical, could not carry a tune, would be mortified to play in front of anyone. He didn’t want it. Give it to someone else, he said.

Andrea, frankly, had been glad. She thought Greg’s temple was a cult. It sucked you in, but it wasn’t real.

So here was Andrea drowning in meanness: Barney wanted the guitar, he was the correct spiritual heir, Eric did not want the guitar, Andrea was glad Eric did not want the guitar. And still she would not give the guitar to Delilah.

Despicable! Andrea kept a firm line over the phone, but inside she was cringing at her behavior. Tess had died and Andrea was turning into a witch.

Delilah was upset. She pleaded again on Barney’s behalf, but halfheartedly. She hung up without saying goodbye. Andrea supposed she would go to Addison. Get a court order, maybe, for the guitar. Fine! Let her!

Andrea had a moment of weakness. Or was it strength? (Everything was so inside out, she could not tell the difference.) She would call Delilah back and offer Barney the guitar.

But no, she wouldn’t.

Andrea’s copy of The English Patient with its cover and the first eighteen pages ripped out lay on the counter. She could still finish it, Ed pointed out, since the part she had yet to read was unharmed.

She threw the book in the trash, then started wailing. Didn’t he see? Didn’t he see the way everything was ruined?

Andrea tried to put her energies elsewhere. She tried to focus on the twins. But the twins were like little goblins; they both looked so much like Tess that they scared Andrea. Andrea was losing hold of her sanity; she was frightened by two seven-year-olds. Looking at them was like looking at Tess, and Tess was dead. She was never coming back. Andrea would never see her again. She was dead. The reality gripped Andrea around the neck like two bony hands. She avoided looking at the twins. She was barely able to pour their Cheerios, pack their lunch boxes, and get them to camp. Once they were gone (running from the car, exhilarated by their freedom), Andrea drove aimlessly around the island. She was searching for something. What would help? She pulled into an unfamiliar driveway and burst into tears. She screamed with her fist jammed in her mouth.

She went to the grocery store to buy steaks. This was a normal, everyday act. This was what people did when they were alive: they went to the market to shop for food, which they turned into meals. The grocery store was chilly and indifferent. The produce section featured neat pyramids of plums, peaches, nectarines, grapes, wedges of watermelon. Knobs of gingerroot, bags of coleslaw mix. How could any of this matter? Tess was dead, she was in a coffin, in the ground not a half-mile away. But she was gone. That smiling face, that perky voice. Dead. Andrea hurried through the store to the butcher shop. If Andrea had died and Tess was alive, would Tess be able to make a trip to the store? Yes, of course. But Andrea was not Tess. She felt like she was going to asphyxiate. Air, she needed air; she needed to be outside. But being outside felt wrong, too. How could Andrea enjoy sunshine and the breeze when Tess was in the ground? She couldn’t be inside and she couldn’t be outside. She was a mess.

She grabbed six rib-eye steaks. They were far more expensive than the steaks she usually bought, but who cared anymore about money? Andrea cut down the cereal aisle to the cashier—and bad luck. In front of her in line was Heather Dickson, wife of one of Ed’s sergeants, whom Andrea had not seen since this happened. When Heather saw Andrea, her face instantly registered that cross between sympathy and pity that Andrea so detested.

Andrea held up a hand, not in greeting but in traffic-cop sign language. STOP. Please don’t speak. I cannot handle the kindest words.

Although Heather’s husband was a policeman who did occasionally direct traffic outside the Boys & Girls Club, Heather did not pick up on the meaning of Andrea’s sign language. She said, “Oh, God, Andrea, how are you? I’ve been thinking of you.”

How am I? Andrea thought. I am a stark raving lunatic. Look at me: I can’t even draw the breath to answer you. I am going to try a nod and a whispered lie. “I’m okay, thanks.”

Heather stared intently. She hadn’t heard. But she got the message, maybe, that Andrea was losing her marbles and should be dropped like a hot potato. “Please let me know if you need anything,” she said as she piled her bags into her cart and rolled out of the store.

Andrea stared at the steaks wrapped in plastic. Need anything?

That night Ed was late. Kacy had been entertaining the twins outside with Frisbee, but she had been promoted to the evening shift at the Juice Bar and had to get to work. Eric was playing in the adult softball league for the bike shop team. Andrea marveled at the difference between two children with their own lives and two children who needed everything done for them. Finn, Andrea had learned, couldn’t even tie his shoes.

You’re seven years old! Andrea had said. And you can’t tie your shoes?

Mom always did it, he said.

This was true. Tess was guilty as charged. She babied the kids. She did everything for them, even to their own detriment. Finn could not tie his shoes. He could not pick out his own pajamas or pour a glass of milk.

Andrea lit the grill. She had too much food; she had not realized that both Eric and Kacy would miss dinner. Although, really, she thought, when was the last time either of them had been home for dinner? They were putting themselves outside the house on purpose. They didn’t want to be at home with their deranged mother.