While She Was Sleeping...

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Isabel Sharpe. While She Was Sleeping...

“You’re sleeping in the guest room from now on.”

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“So … no chance even for a quickie right now?” Sawyer teased.

Alana’s eyes darkened. “If you keep that up, I’m going to—”

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On the wall to her left hung the pictures she’d taken on Mom’s last sporadic visit, four years earlier on the occasion of Melanie’s graduation from UWM, before Mom took off again, presumably for good this time. In her favorite—their picnic on Lake Michigan’s Bradford Beach—she’d caught Gran and Grandad, Melanie and Mom in an impromptu group hug, arms around each other, smiling broadly, hair blowing in the wind—except Grandad’s because he no longer had any.

Mom—or Tricia, as she wanted her daughters to call her now that they were grown, which they both refused to do—still called on or around their birthdays, still promised to visit “really soon,” still sent haphazard thinking-of-you cards and occasional gifts—crystals and bulky, colorful jewelry, books on spiritual healing—that had nothing to do with who they had become.

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