Bringing In the Dead

Sybil can be one spooky old bird when she brings in the dead. “Someone is here,” she says, that eerie smile on her face. Sitting in a plump armchair, she stares into the distance, her pale gray eyes as mesmerizing as her words. “Can’t be certain it’s your husband … I sense a short name, one syllable.”

“Russ?” Cecilia McCabe’s voice is filled with want. This is her first visit to the home of Sybil and Adelaide Prue.

Adelaide sits in the loveseat, bearing witness, mostly in silence. Sybil’s eyes drift right, flick back, and then drift right again. “He’s showing me a number three. This usually means a month. Does the month of March have special meaning for you?”

Tears come into Cecilia’s throat. “He died last March.”

“It’s only October. I’m sorry. This loss is fresh.” The living room is quiet but for the rhythmic tick of the pendulum clock over the fieldstone fireplace. “I feel his passing here.” Sybil lifts a hand to her head and a finger joint clicks. “A stroke? Head injury?”

“He was hit by a car. Out for his morning run. He was hit so hard he … They didn’t even stop.” Cecilia looks at The Baby next to Adelaide. Baby Bella in her purple romper.

“Poor man,” Adelaide says with a sigh. She figures Cecilia to be in her mid-40s. Slim and fit. Good teeth and skin. The tailoring of her blazer, the elegance of her shirt, her shoes — all whisper luxury. Like most of the Prue sisters’ clients, this woman is prepared to pay for succor.

Sybil goes on, voice low and soothing. “I sense that this was a marriage that had its ups and downs. He says he could be self-indulgent at times. He wants you to know that even if he didn’t always show it, you were his one great love. Did Russ enjoy sports?”

“Football.”

“He’s being playful. Two great loves: You and football.” Sybil pauses as if confused. “He’s showing me a picture of a zebra.”

“Oh god, it is Russ.” Hand over her mouth, a wet laugh. “They call the referees zebras because of their uniforms. He used to get so mad when they made a bad call.”

“Yes. Did he have a nickname for you? He’s saying, not Cecilia.” When she gets no answer, Sybil clarifies. “You see, my sister’s name is Adelaide, but I call her Addie.”

“No, I get it,” she says. “Russ used to say if he went first, I should make the medium tell me the nickname. As proof.”

Sybil smiles. “A skeptic. I — ” She stops. “There’s a woman. Blackness in her chest, breast or lung cancer perhaps. Heart disease?”

“Louise,” Cecilia whispers, astonished. “Russ’s mother, Louise died of lung cancer.”

“Yes. I feel a maternal energy. They’re together now.”

Addie smiles softly: Nicely, done, Sibby. Nimble as a cat. As she shifts in her seat, The Baby tumbles against her hip and gurgles. A hum comes from The Baby’s chest; her eyes click shut. Something’s wrong with her. So unreliable lately.

Adelaide brings the doll into her lap and quietly toggles the switch on its back. The lashes rise, and blue eyes stare again. A yawning breath followed by babbles: Nuh-duh-duh. The doll makes different sounds depending on how it’s positioned. Only Sybil has the patience to make it work as it should.

“You don’t have to talk to The Baby,” Sybil assures Cecilia. “If you find it strange.”

Of course she wants to talk to it, Addie thinks. Addie’s never warmed to this doll gimmick. Feels hokey. Nonetheless, ever since Sibby started using it as a kind of psychic sidekick, word has traveled among the ladies who lunch. These days, clients drive up from the city expressly for the insights of a toy store doll called Bella.

Addie shifts the little body over to Sybil. The doll giggles. Taking one of Bella’s hands, Sybil points it at Cecilia and says, “Cee — ah … ”

“Cia!” Cecilia says. “That’s what Russ called me. Oh Sybil … you knew.”

“Not me, dear. The Baby.” Sybil spreads the doll’s arms and elicits a Ma-ma. “She sees someone close to you — it’s an M name.”

Cecilia blinks. “Mack? Mack is Russ’s brother.”

“Bella sees a picture: Russ with one arm around his brother, the other around you.”

The doll sputters and babbles, blue eyes fixed on Cecilia. Cecilia flushes and looks away.

Sybil studies her client. “Bella says that you needn’t be ashamed. This man comforts you. He’d do anything for you. Just be careful of too much too soon.”

Cecilia swallows. Her eyes slide back to the doll. “Thank you,” she whispers. As if it has given her absolution.

Addie looks at the clock. Forgiveness is generally what they want: To be unburdened from guilt by someone outside themselves. As Addie is about to offer closing words, Sybil’s head drops. Her eyes shut as if she’s in pain.

“Mama-ka-puh,” the doll says.

Addie touches her sister’s hand, trying to keep the alarm from her voice. “Sibby, honey?”

Sybil’s eyes open. “Who’s child?” She turns to Cecilia. “Did a child pass?”

Cecilia stares, her chin quivering.

“A child,” Sybil repeats. Testy. “The Baby says a child passed.”

“My child,” Cecilia says. “I was eight months pregnant when Russ… I had a baby girl. I put her down to nap and — ” Cecilia chokes on her words. “They said it was SIDS. Five weeks old. My last chance. Russ and Olivia. Both gone.” Her hands cover her face.

Sybil’s eyes drift. “Olivia is with her father and grandmother. Your child is held in love.”

“It’s my fault. The nanny had to feed her. I couldn’t even — I was so filled with grief.”

“You could not have prevented this loss,” Sybil says. Her hands hover over the doll’s head like a crystal ball. “She says there was a hole in her heart. In spirit, she is whole again.” Sybil’s expression turns beatific. “Bella is smitten. Your child is a ball of light.”

A choked sob from Cecilia. “I thought Olivia was too young to contact. You have no idea how much this means.” Wiping her face, she gazes at the doll. “May I hold her?”

“No.” Sybil’s tone is curt. “We must let The Baby rest.”

* * *

Standing on the porch in the dying light, Addie tugs her sweater closed and waves as Cecilia climbs into a rain-drizzled Audi. She keeps a kindly expression, but she’s not happy with Sibby. At the end, the woman asked if perhaps her baby’s soul would come back to her through another child. Sibby’s reply: “No. I don’t see that happening.” It had a punitive tone.

As Cecilia drives off, a falling red leaf hits the road like a period. Addie heads inside.

The living room is vacant, so she continues down the hall. In the kitchen, she finds Sybil struggling with something over the sink. The doll sits on one of the dining chairs, gazing toward the woolly back of Sybil’s cardigan. As if watching Mother.

“Bastard thing,” Sybil sputters.

Addie moves in close, sees that she’s in battle with a bottle of ibuprofen. The joints in Sybil’s hands are miserable today. Addie reaches for the bottle. “Here. Lemme open it.”

Sybil jerks away.

Addie looks at her. “Sibby.”

“Addie,” Sybil mimics the chiding tone and continues to grapple with the child-proof cap.

Addie sidesteps to the cupboard.

“Sonuvabitch!” Sybil fires the bottle into the sink. The lid cracks off and a dozen red caplets rattle around the stainless-steel basin. She braces herself against the counter and spits expletives that would make a gangster blush.

Setting out two stemless glasses, Addie uncorks a bottle of red. “Want one?”

“Yes.”

Addie pours.

“Don’t be such a miser,” Sibby says.

“You don’t want to aggravate your arthritis.”

“Know what’s aggravating me now?”

Addie adds a good splash and slides it over. Picking up her own glass, she rests her back against the counter. The kitchen is quiet. “How did you feel about that last session?”

A ragged look on her face, Sybil stares out the window to the darkening sky.

“You handled the nickname beautifully,” Addie says. She is a great believer in starting with the positive. “And the zebra bit was terrific.”

Sybil reaches into the sink and nabs a couple of pills. She swallows them with wine. “You know very well I didn’t mean to say, Cia. I was saying, See — ” She jabs two fingers toward her own eyes. “Then, uhh … because I lost my damn train of thought.”

“That’s what made it good. You always pivot so nicely.”

“The zebra thing was all you.”

When possible, Addie scouts online ahead of new clients. Cecilia McCabe never took down her husband’s social media profile. Russ was indeed a football fan and a sucker for zebra memes. He also enjoyed web pages with names like Secret Friend and Russian Galpals. Self-indulgent indeed. Of course, one can’t always trust social media. In the long run, it’s best to toss out details that are mostly true for most people. Like Sybil’s vision: A woman with blackness in the chest. Most people know someone who has survived or died from cancer or heart disease. The client will make their own connections. They want to believe.

The simplest thing is initials — I’m getting an N or an M. Sybil got a nice hit with that one. The look on Cecilia’s red face said it all. This is where Sybil excels.

Addie looks over at the doll now. Sometimes, she could swear its eyes follow her. She’s starting to hate that thing. The worst of it is, it almost feels like jealousy.

Moving off the counter, Addie heads for the chair and picks the doll up by an arm.

“Ah-duh-duh,” it calls, as if in protest.

“Don’t yank her,” Sybil says. “You’ll break her arm.”

Lumping the doll on the table, Addie lowers herself into the chair. “It’s a toy, Sibby. Made for little brats who yank things.”

“Mama,” the doll says.

Addie flips it over and fiddles with the switch. Except it’s already off. Great, now the thing’s busted. She shoves it against the wall. A last gurgle of complaint and then it goes silent.

Addie sips her wine. “What’s going on with you?”

Sybil joins her at the table. “Nothing. What’s with you?”

Addie tsks. “I’m not the one who got pissy with a client. Did a child pass?! As if she was keeping secrets. I didn’t understand where you were coming from.”

She flicks a look at the ceiling. “It was a simple question.”

“Uh-huh. And at the end when she wondered if she might have another baby — ”

“The nanny had to feed her,” Sybil sneers. She sits the doll on the table in front of her. “Anyway, you don’t have to be psychic to know Cecilia McCabe is no spring chicken.”

“Perhaps not. But for four hundred bucks a pop, clients expect a little hope.”

“That’s life. Waste a chance, you probably won’t get another.”

Addie peers at her sister. Like Cecilia, Sibby didn’t have a child until well into her forties. She’s coming up on eighty now and her silver mane almost matches her eyes. When she was young, the dark hair made for a striking contrast. Her little girl was a carbon copy. Poor thing. Not even four years old. Waste a chance, you probably won’t get another.

“Is that what this is about? Willow?”

Sybil lets go of the doll and picks up her glass. Unspoken rule: Do not talk about Willow. To speak her name is to conjure deep water lapping the sides of a backyard pool.

“Never mind,” Addie says. “I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t cold reading,” Sybil blurts. “I heard it. Baby Bella. She said, Mama … ”

“I know that, honey,” Addie says gently.

“Don’t do that. Let me finish.” Sybil takes a mouthful of wine. Her hand trembles as she sets the glass down. “I heard her say, Mama, a child passed.”

Addie looks into Sybil’s frightened eyes. “When you say you heard her — ”

“I mean I heard her.”

Oh god, Sibby. Don’t do this. Is it possible she’s had a mini stroke? The way her head dropped earlier. No slurred speech or anything, but still. Addie tries for the right tone: “Are you saying the doll spoke actual — ”

The doll interrupts with more babble.

“There!” Sybil shudders. “Did you hear that?”

Addie looks at the doll. “Why don’t we go for a walk? Pick up some Thai for dinner.”

“For chrissake, did you hear what she said or not?”

Addie holds her sister’s gaze. “She said, Ma-ma-ma.”

“She said, Mama, Michael’s coming. You didn’t hear that?” Sybil lifts the doll and stares into its eyes. “Michael who? The man in the black hood? Or do you mean Daddy?”

Addie’s mouth hangs. Man in the black hood? Jesus, Sibby. Daddy? He’s been dead since they were kids.

* * *

Sybil and Adelaide’s father stopped to pick up a bottle of wine. He walked into a robbery. Michael Prue was shot in the chest. His death immobilized Fern, their mother. The insurance took care of them, but Addie would wonder later if that safety net gave Fern the room to fall apart.

Her doctor prescribed tranquilizers. Watching her take them day after day, Sybil dreamed that her mother loaded a revolver with capsules. That same night Fern swallowed thirty pills and then called for an ambulance.

She came home a week later with a different tranquilizer. Rarely left the house after that. Forgot to pay bills. The electricity went out. The phone went dead.

By the time she was 14, Adelaide had taken over the bills. Filling out checks, she’d bring them to Fern’s bed to sign. Soon she could do Fern’s signature better than Fern could.

Older by a year, Sybil did the cooking and brought trays of food to their mother. She searched the public library for books on psychiatry.

Lying awake one night, Sybil asked, “Do you think I’m like her?”

“No,” Addie said.

“She says I’m like her. I’ve got her eyes. You got Dad’s eyes and you’re like Dad: Smart. Organized. I’m more like her. She’s got neurosis. Major neurosis.”

“Stop reading those head shrinker books.”

“Remember when I had that dream about the pills in the gun? Sigmund Freud says the unconscious is the real psychic. Doesn’t take a psychic to see those pills could kill you.” No answer from Addie. “I told her about that dream. She said, I knew it, Sibby. You have ghosts in your eyes, like me. She wanted to know if I get messages from Daddy. Like, from beyond. She says, You’d tell me if you heard from him, wouldn’t you?” Sybil rolled over and stared at the wall. “Everything is about Daddy. She doesn’t give a damn about us.”

“She just misses him, Sibby.”

“Well, he’s gone and we’re here.” Tears moved in Sybil’s throat. “I miss him too.”

Addie crossed the room and climbed into bed with Sibby. “I talk to him sometimes,” she said. “Almost like praying. I tell him stuff, ask him what to do. Makes me feel better. You could do that with Mama. We both could. Maybe she’d feel better. Then we’d all feel better.”

* * *

Sitting at the table, Addie snaps lids onto take-out containers. “That hit the spot,” she says. “Nice spicy food on a dreary night.”

Sybil watches rain spatter the kitchen window. “You’re right. It was cruel what I said to that woman. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Haven’t been sleeping. Bad dreams.”

Addie stops fussing with the containers.

“Last night,” Sybil tells her, “I dreamed I found a door in the floor. A secret room and Daddy and Willow were there. He was boarding up the windows like a storm was coming. Willow was handing him nails. She didn’t call him Grandpa, she called him Michael — Michael, hurry. The bad man is coming for me. Except the bad man was already in the house. We could hear him walking overhead. Then he was in the room with us — a man in a black hood. Like death. And his name was Michael too. He took Willow. I couldn’t stop him. I woke up crying, thinking about the way I lost her. Maybe it was my punishment.”

“Your punishment? For what?”

“Deceit? All those phony messages I gave Mama from her dead husband. I do the same now, except now I make a profit.” Sybil looks into her hands. “I’ve been selfish. When Mama was dying, you moved back in, took care of her. I hid and made excuses. … Lately, it’s as if all my sins exist simultaneously. Like time is all happening at once.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Addie says. “Willow’s death was a tragedy, not a punishment. She was a stubborn, curious little girl … like her mama. She got out of the house that night. It was an accident.” She pauses. “When it happened, I was grateful that you had a husband like Sheldon. A little older and wiser. He and I didn’t always get along, but he was a good man. It would pain him terribly to see you castigate yourself this way.”

Sybil fidgets with a button on her cardigan.

“And telling Mama that the man she loved wanted her to live happy in this world — that was a kindness, not a sin. God knows she wasn’t easy. I moved back when she got sick because I was going through a divorce. I’m no saint, Sibby. Frankly, I didn’t want to face you and your perfect marriage.” She thinks for a moment. “Look, I don’t know how psychic you are but you’ve always been an empath. You know what people feel before they know it themselves. You give clients the advice you’d give a friend, but instead of ‘I think,’ you say ‘I sense,’ which is just as true.”

Sybils says nothing. Addie wonders if she’s heard a word.

* * *

Sybil coasts in and out of sleep. Can feel the weight of Sheldon’s hand on her hip. She’s back in the old house in Tuckahoe. The black cloud of Willow’s tantrum still clings — that girl wants to play in the pool all day and she will not go gentle into anyone’s goodnight. Wouldn’t even listen to Sheldon’s bedtime offering. Every night, he reads her the sweet words of E.E. Cummings: I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart.

Sybil jolts awake. Willow?

Down the hall to her daughter’s pink room. Little bed is empty. Willow?

Hustling downstairs. Lights are on. Patio door is open. Willow!

Rushing outside. The glowing blue pool. Tiny body floating. Screaming into the water, crying, praying, begging. Willow!

Lifting her lifeless. Chest compressions. Mouth-to-mouth. Willow!

* * *

Sybil jolts awake. Again. For real this time. No more Willow. No more Sheldon. Dread squats on her chest.

On the other side of her closed door, feet shuffle. The knob turns slowly. “Sibby?” Addie’s head pokes into the room, white hair falling around her shoulders.

Sybil turns the lamp on. Light blanches her dream away. She squints at Addie in her floral pajamas.

“Thought I heard something,” Addie says.

A short sharp cry comes from downstairs.

Sybil huffs. “Was that Baby Bella? Why didn’t you turn her switch off?”

“I told you: It’s broken. Meant to take the batteries out.”

“Well, you didn’t.” Sybil throws the covers back.

“Never mind. I’ll go.” A grating noise from below. Addie freezes. Creeping to the door, she peers into the hall. Sound of scraping glass. “What was that?” Addie turns back to Sibby. “Have you got your cell phone?”

“You told me not to keep it in here. Bad for sleep.”

Addie flicks a look at the ceiling. “Mine’s in the kitchen.”

Another scrape. Sounds as if someone is tapping a window. A clatter follows. Addie flinches. “Someone’s breaking in.”

“Yes.” Sybil’s gray eyes spark. “This is happening.”

“Oh, Jesus. Do we still have that pepper spray?”

Sybil rolls up the sleeves of her pajama shirt and gets out of bed. Crouching, she pulls a hammer from underneath. On her feet, she says, “I’m coming, baby.”

Addie’s mouth hangs. “What’re you doing?” She watches her sister slip out of the bedroom. A glimmer of street light comes through the window at the end of the hall, casting Sybil in silhouette. “Sibby!” she hisses. “Sibby, get back here.”

Sybil walks on, solemn as a ghost, hammer raised like a candelabrum. At the top of the stairs, she looks out the window and spots a Jeep parked out front. “He’s here,” she says.

* * *

Cold, damp air moves through a missing piece of the sidelight. A square of cracked glass lies by the front door. The man wears a black hoodie and a surgical mask. One gloved hand shines a flashlight as the other pockets a glass cutter. Making his way into the living room, he casts the beam across walls, runs it over the mantel, the hearth, the wrought iron tools. He tosses cushions, hunches down and looks under furniture. He mutters frustration.

A creak overhead. He looks at the ceiling. Creaks on the staircase. Snapping off the flashlight, he hurries into the darkest corner.

* * *

At the bottom of the stairs, Sybil stands in the glow of street light that ekes through the windows. Cool air wafts through the broken sidelight. He must be in here still. Hunting.

She considers the light switch. No. Perhaps allowing him this cloak of darkness will keep the peace. She walks slowly into the living room, the Persian rug soft on her bare feet as her heart drubs. “Are you here?” No answer.

Sybil peers into the darkness. “I know what you want, but I don’t know why.”

A breath in the shadows.

Her eyes follow the sound. “I’ve been dreaming of men called Michael,” she says. “My father was called Michael. Is that your name too?”

A beam of piercing light from the corner blinds her. Clutching the hammer, her free hand blocks the light. “You’re the man in the black hood, aren’t you? What do you want her for?”

A hulking figure barrels out of the dark. Crack to Sybil’s head. She cries out as she falls.

“Sibby!” Addie thunders down the stairs. Armed with pepper spray, she flips the light switch as she goes. Brightness floods the hall, washes into the living room.

Seeing the canister in Addie’s hand, the man turns back and grabs Sybil. Crouching, arm around her throat, he looks at Addie. “Spray that shit at me, I’ll break her neck.”

Coughing against his arm, Sybil shifts her aching hip off the hammer.

“Quit moving!”

Sybil quits. Addie stands at the entrance to the living room, panting. As she takes in the gash over Sybil’s brow, she gasps, aims the canister at him. “Let her go, or I’ll spray it down your throat till you choke.”

He swallows, bewildered. “I don’t want to hurt you, lady.”

“Too late, y’sonuvabitch,” Addie hollers. She steps closer, leading with the pepper spray.

The man blinks rapidly. Looking down at Sybil, he sees the gash and cringes. “Just gimme the doll and I’ll leave.”

“The doll?” Addie repeats, astonished.

“No!” Sybil snaps. “No doll.”

“It’s inside the coffee table,” Addie says.

He lets Sybil go.

“Addie,” Sybil scolds. Addie moves in beside her and murmurs about an ambulance.

The man lifts the lid off the coffee table. Taking out the doll, he holds it in front of him and stares at the closed eyes in its plasticky head. “This is it?”

In the hall the front door whines open. “Mack?”

As he looks toward the voice, a hum comes from inside the doll’s body. Its eyes snap open. The red mouth screams, “Mama!”

He yelps and flings it. The doll hits the fireplace and its wail fills the room like a siren.

The front door flies open and Cecilia McCabe rushes toward the cry. She stops, shocked by the sight of the Prue sisters. The four of them look at one another, agape.

“Bella needs me,” Cecilia says. “Let me hold her.” Stooping at the hearth, she picks up the doll. Its screams ebb to a sob. One blue eye is shattered. A bloodless gash across its nose. “Mack?” She looks at the man. “What did you do? My baby … ”

“Your baby?” He stares.

“She’s my only — she talks to Olivia.”

“You outta your mind?” Yanking off the mask, he mashes it in his hand. “You think a doll talks to your … that’s why you sent me over here?” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Cia. Couldn’t figure out why you had to have this freakin’ thing. Thought these old biddies stole a family heirloom or — ”

“You hurt her.” Cecilia’s tears slide. The doll snuffles, staring up as she cradles it. “My sweet baby.”

“It’s not a baby!” Mack paces a couple of steps. “You’re crazy.”

“The Jeep,” Sybil says, staring into space.

“Sibby?” Glaring at Mack, Addie says, “Look what you’ve done. You and your fool girlfriend.”

“The Jeep,” Sybil insists.

The room falls silent.

Silver hair in tangles, eyes glassy as a sleepwalker’s, Sybil says, “He put a bumper on the front, like a police car has.”

Mack looks at Cecilia. “What the hell is she — ”

“Driving down a winding road,” Sybil says. “Trees are bare. Cold morning … so dark … There he is. Just ahead. On the side of the road. Jogging. Can see him in the headlights, white stripes on his jacket. … Slow down. What’re you doing?” Sybil’s hands jump out as if bracing on a dashboard. “Slow down. You’re going to hit him. No!” She gasps.

The room shudders. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves.

After a moment, Sybil blinks as if she’s just woken. A tear eases out of one pale eye, trickles over a sharp cheekbone. She turns to Mack. “You.”

“Mack?” Cecilia looks at him. Her voice is thin. “You killed my Russ?”

He stares. “Your Russ? Now he’s your Russ? Like, you didn’t bawl in my arms — He’s cheating. Selfish pig. I wish he was dead.”

Cecilia shakes her head. “I never said I — ”

“That’s what you meant!” he shouts. “You wanted me to do it.”

“The push bumper,” she says. “You said it was for the snow. To push cars. It was so the Jeep wouldn’t get damaged. It would have been evidence.”

“Shut up, Cia.” His voice gets shrill as he talks to himself. “What’d you do, Mack? Why’re you so stupid?”

“Your own brother?” Cecilia says.

Mack paces to the fireplace. “Look what you made me do.” He picks up the poker. Turning back to the two old women, his chin trembles. “Look what you made me do.”

“Mama!” the doll shrieks.

“Mack, don’t,” Cecilia says.

Addie’s hand shoots out. Pepper streams into Mack’s face. He bellows, drops the poker. Palms against his eyes, he staggers. Sibby snatches her hammer off the floor. Gripping it with both hands, she swings hard into his shin. He howls and falls against the hearth.

* * *

“You want to do this now?” Addie asks. “We’ve been at the hospital half the night.”

A taxi just picked them up outside St. Joseph’s. Orange light eases up from the horizon, scuttling clouds, breaking blue as the cab eases through the cemetery gates.

From the backseat, Sybil peers through the windshield. “Where that big white stone is,”

she tells the driver.

Addie looks at Sibby’s forehead: five black surgeon’s knots under a slick of clear tape. She fared better than Cecilia’s brother-in-law. Minutes after Addie dialed 911, the house was alive with the squawk of two-way radios. Police and paramedics. On the floor, Mack begged for help: He couldn’t see, he said. He couldn’t walk. Full name: Michael Joseph McCabe. Addie showed officers the hole he cut in the sidelight. Michael McCabe and his sister-in-law were read their rights and taken away.

“We’ll just be a few minutes,” Sybil tells the cabbie. She pushes open the back door and Addie scoots across the seat to follow.

Sybil limps as they move onto the graveyard lawn. Her hip aches. Addie links her arm with Sibby’s.

“Quit fussing,” Sybil says.

“It’s not for you, it’s for me.” They pick their way between headstones. “I checked online, while they were stitching you up,” Addie says. “Looks like we can order a new eye for the doll.”

“I don’t know,” Sybil sighs. “I thought you hated that thing.”

Addie scoffs.

Twenty yards in, they come to a polished stone memorial. Sybil looks at the names of her husband and child. After a moment, she says, “I really saw it. As if I were in that Jeep. I’ve had intuitions before — flashes — but nothing like that. I just don’t … why?”

Addie stays silent. Because she knows what’s buried under the question.

Sybil’s lips move as she reads the epigraph: I carry your heart with me. Aloud she says, “Sheldon’s favorite poem. He made a book for Willow out of it. Read it to her every night. She loved it.” She stares at the words. “What good is seeing tragedy after the fact? Why couldn’t I see it before my own baby …” She shakes her head, looks off to the gold and red leaves glowing in the light of the rising sun and tries to recall the last line of that poem. Something about the wonder that keeps the stars apart. About how love’s deepest deep is higher than a soul can hope. She takes a shaky breath and asks, “Where did you say we could find those dolls’ eyes?

Squeezing Sibby’s arm with her own, Addie lets the words drift on the breeze and rests her head on her sister’s shoulder.