It cost sixty-four dollars, which for her was a lot, and she came home and put it on and made me sit on the end of the bed and look at it.
She was going to wear it under the gown. That was the plan. Gown on for the stage, gown off for the photos afterward, red dress in every picture.
She never wore it. It hung in her closet with the tag still on for ten years.
Cal was eight when his sister died.
Eight is a terrible age for it. Old enough to understand permanently, young enough that nobody thinks to ask him anything.
For about two years he barely spoke about her. Then somewhere around eleven he started asking me questions, hundreds of them, mostly small — what she ate, what she was scared of, whether she was funny.
She was extremely funny. She was funny in a way that got her in trouble.
