The door to Mary's room was open an inch.
Through the gap I could see the end of her bed, the sage green cashmere blanket folded across the foot of it, the familiar pattern of afternoon light on the Persian rug. A talk show was playing low on the television — one of those programs where a panel of women discussed things loudly and occasionally burst into applause.
I pushed the door open slowly.
Mary was asleep.
She was on her back with her hands folded on her chest, which was how she'd always slept — she'd described it once as the habit of a girl raised Catholic who'd been told it was respectful to sleep as though you were already dead. When she'd told me that, I was nine years old and deeply horrified. She'd laughed for five straight minutes.
Her face in sleep was so still. The lines
