How could she explain to Barnaby how it had all felt; how it felt even now to know she’d lost her sister. The dread. The panic. The jealousy of other people having small children at their side. How she’d awaken with a pounding heart knowing she lost something but for a sacred few moments not remembering what it was. The despair eased through the years, but not much. As she grew older, nothing quelled the memories: not liquor, not men, not stories or books or the distractions of friends and parties.
