Everyone else in my life seemed to be busy with their own responsibilities — Hugh at the gallery as a busy selling season began, Claire with her work at the insurance company. Even Theo with her mural. It was as though the last year had never happened. Jenna was back to her old self, more or less. We didn't talk about her being dead anymore. She hadn't believed that she was, after all, just that she was sick. I felt no reason to push the issue. One day I was in my room, getting dressed. I noticed the calender was still set to March; I'd never bothered changing it, since the passage of time hadn't seemed to matter. I tore off all the months before June, and crumpled the pages into the trash. Jenna and I spent all of our days together, gossiping about the politics at Hawthorne, talking about movies, and sharing memories. She didn't know Henry existed, which was a nice change. I almost mentioned him several times, but I thought it would be too much to explain. I spent a lot of time downstairs or just by myself (at least, it looked that way to an outside observer) on the couch.
