Her mom turned their house into the Nancy Joyner Gallery of Crap with constantly rotating exhibits; a museum of herself, crammed full of art projects and craft projects and paint-by-numbers self-expression. Louise grew blind to it over the years, just like she had to the dolls, but now she thought of all the framed pieces that hung in the house, all the pieces stacked up in the garage, probably more hidden in the attic, so much of it everywhere—her mom’s art collection.
