The spare room smelled of cedar and unused pillows. Rachel lay on top of the quilt in the black dress because changing into a nightgown from the marital drawer felt like a theft. She stared at the ceiling until the ceiling became the church, became the hospital, became a car with fogged windows, became the dark entry where she had said relax. Somewhere near two she heard Jason in the kitchen, the soft run of the tap, the lid of the trash, the cake being surrendered. She did not go down. Mercy, at that hour, was letting him throw away his own surprise without an audience.
In the morning the light came in clean and mountain-bright, indifferent to the house. Sophie ate toast in her pink cardigan from the night before because she had refused to change, a small strike. Jason made the toast. Rachel poured the juice. They moved like courteous roommates who had once been fluent. The balloons had lost altitude and hovered at eye level, gold and slightly foolish. The gifts remained wrapped. The island smelled faintly of soap where the frosting had been wiped, a clean that did not convince anyone.
"School?" Rachel asked.
"It's Saturday," Sophie said, with the pity of the young for the distracted. "We have the aquarium tomorrow. You said."
Rachel had said. A promise from Wednesday, before Cheyenne, before the text, before the door. She looked at Jason. He was buttering toast with excessive attention. "We can still go," he said. "If you want to go with Mommy. Or with me. Or all of us, if we can be normal for two hours in front of fish. Can we?"
The question was for Rachel. She heard the cost of it. "We can try," she said. "Normal for the fish. Honest in the car if we need to be."