The message ended on a small click, Claire setting the phone down perhaps, or the memo finishing itself. The kitchen filled with the refrigerator's hum, which had been there all along and now sounded indecently alive. The battery icon had climbed to forty-one percent. A drop of water fell from the kettle's spout onto the stove and hissed itself out of importance.
Emma was the first to breathe like a child again. Tears came without theater. She put her forehead on her folded arms and cried the way she had not cried at the funeral, when she had been busy being watched. David put his hand on her back and felt the hoodie, the heat of her, the fact of her. His own eyes had gone hot and unusable. He stared at the placemat until the weave became a map of a country he did not know how to enter.
Helen had her hand over her mouth. When she lowered it, her chin was wet. "She sounds like herself," she said, which was the highest praise she had. "Bossy. Exact. Mine."
Naomi stood up and sat down. "Play it again," she said, then, "No. Not yet. Sorry."
Lauren had not moved. The black sweater made her look smaller than the blue dress had. Her hands were flat on the table, as if she were holding the house down. When she spoke, her voice had no strategy in it.