Barbara made dinner: butternut squash soup, citrus-rubbed pork loin, and garlic mashed potatoes. What actually ended up on the table were four bowls of orange sludge, blackened hockey pucks, and some piles of white potato-flavored paste. My dad and I gritted our teeth and moved our food around our plates so it looked like we had eaten. That night I couldn’t sleep—either residual effects of believing in Santa Claus or the fact that I was still starving. I got out of bed and went downstairs to make myself a snack, nearly screaming when I turned on the light and saw my grandma at the table. “Laura?” she said. She’d been sitting in the dark with a drink, staring into space. “No, Grandma, it’s me, Emma.” “Oh.” Her eyes were cloudy, almost opaque. “What are you doing?” I said. “Thinking.” I studied her face. There was something distant and disturbing about her expression. “She just left the house and walked right into the ocean,” she said, muttering to herself.
