The moment her eyes opened, Justine knew the day would be a disaster. Mid-morning light seeped through the woven drapes, meaning she'd overslept. As she struggled to extricate herself from the sweaty, twisted bed linen, one of her nails snagged on the comforter. Forcing her hand free, she heard a rip. The creamy satin cover now bore evidence of her inability to tend to small things.
      The alarm clock read 10:30. Dr. Bevan's office would be calling today to see if she had finished the medical transcriptions, and she had hoped to get an early start on them. She always woke before dawn. Sometimes she remained immobile for several hours, in blackness, dreading the day, and some mornings, like this one, she fell back to sleep into such a deep escape that the alarm could not wake her.
      The thought of losing Dr. Bevan's business sent a shiver of anxiety along her spine. Justine sat upright on the edge of the bed with her feet flat on the floor. She breathed in to the count of eight, then out to the count of eight. After five repetitions her back relaxed, her shoulders dropped away from her ears. Stretching her neck left and right she could hear some cracking, but nothing else. Nothing in the house moved anymore, except her. The fifties bungalow in Waukegan had wood floors, but there were no homey squeaks from the weight of someone coming down the hall. And worse, no toddler's proud, stumbling footfalls. The house had lost its equilibrium; life now existed in only one room at a time.
      Justine lifted her robe from a chair and pulled it on, ignoring the stale smell of her body. The belt of the robe trailed her into the kitchen. From the window over the sink she saw that the road had been plowed. She winced at the glare of sunlight glancing off new snow.
      After two hours of transcription powered by three cups of coffee, Justine returned to the bedroom and dug deep in the closet for her ski suit. It was a sleek one-piece affair and difficult to climb into. She pulled it on, legs first, realizing she'd lost more weight. She reached down and backward to hitch the arms up into place, then zipped it. She'd won a few amateur slalom races wearing this navy blue skin. That was when the slap of wind in her face, the chunky rhythm of her pumping knees, and the energy coursing through her body made her untouchable.
      She could easily walk the five-mile route ahead of her, but she needed the Jeep today for grocery shopping. As she moved from the house to the detached garage she imagined Mrs. Meyer's eyes on her back. An old woman with nothing to do but monitor the neighborhood was bad enough, but Justine harbored a deeper anger toward her. She wrestled with the fairness of this, but allowed it nonetheless.
       She parked outside the black wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. It seemed indecent to drive on the narrow road which wound among the graves, to pass all of those souls at any kind of speed. As she strode a quarter mile into the cemetery, she passed row upon row of upward pointing arrows-the wind in the night must have been gentle and persistent, because snow had banked against the western side of each monument creating a perfect forty-five degree angle.
      Justine dropped to her knees at David's feet. She leaned forward and sank her gloved palms flat into the snow. She closed her eyes and waited for his presence. This was the beginning of her second winter of visits, but she could still make herself feel his arms surround her. When some strength entered her body, she shifted her eyes to the left, to a second headstone. Into the gray granite was carved a small child, sheltered by an angel's wings.

Danielle Marie Henderson
December 3, 2004 - June 19, 2006

      There was no personal inscription. After the baby's death David could not function, and Justine had not been able to come up with the words.
      Justine stretched out on her back across the two graves. She spread her legs and arms to encompass as much of that territory as her body would reach. She began slowly pushing the snow this way and that, making a snow angel. Justine remembered the joy she'd known as a child seeing the magical pattern for the first time. She'd dreamed of watching that same excited surprise bloom in her baby's face.
      After completing a perfect angel, she stayed in place and rested with them. The sun warmed her face. She closed her eyes. The navy suit gathered the sun's heat, and she slept.

      That June day was the last time Justine enjoyed a sunny morning. David and Danielle had left the house in high spirits, and she had watched them through the kitchen window. The baby tottered on some of the rough spots in the crumbling cement pathway leading to the street, and she giggled when she almost tripped. David leaned down toward Danielle, and Justine knew what he would be saying to her. Park. Ducks. Splash. Danielle bumped her body back and forth in excitement, and David swung her up onto his shoulders. It was their favorite mode of transportation-her short legs draped over his shoulders, with each of her hands in one of his.
      As she watched, Justine saw their life as if from above. The small, neat house with a screened porch throwing late shadows across the lawn. A careless flower patch. Three people within. Complete.
      Then a fourth body intruded into Justine's world. As David and Danielle passed Mrs. Meyer's house, Justine saw her neighbor open her front door. Mrs. Meyer must have called to them because David turned around to look back. Mrs. Meyer waved, and David waved in return, his hand holding Danielle's. David walked a couple of steps backward. Justine watched the toe of David's right shoe step on the edge of the curb, but there wasn't room on the curb for his heel. Justine stopped breathing. Their one body-from the baby's head down to David's feet-stood out stark and stiff from the hazy background. She saw, clearly, the buttons on David's shirt, sunlight picking up a few strands of Danielle's golden hair. David was smiling back at Mrs Meyer. Danielle rocked on his shoulders like she was riding her horsey. Justine screamed a warning. David's heel came down, missing the edge of the sidewalk. He lost his balance; his other foot came off the ground, and his body stiffened. Then he fell backwards.
      Justine bolted from the house. She engaged every muscle in her legs, but the sidewalk seemed to buckle and rise up to trap her feet. Her arms pumped through thick air.
      David was flat out on the road. He still held the baby with one hand. So much blood. A lot of it on the chrome bumper of an old car which had been parked there for a few days. Justine wrapped her hands around the baby's head, but it was no longer perfectly smooth. The skull had been crushed on one side. Justine looked into Danielle's dead eyes, and life left her as well. She saw no color, heard only a white swishing. There was a dullness. She felt like a robot. In an instant she knew someone else would be making decisions for her now.
      David groaned and shifted his body toward them. "Oh, God," he muttered. "Please, God."
      "God is not here," she said, in the robot voice. She turned her robot head toward him. "God is not here."
      A hand touched her knee. It could have been someone she knew, but what did it matter?
      David lingered in mental anguish for three months. Then one night he swam out into Lake Michigan. He must have abandoned his wet suit, because it was found a day sooner than his body.

      Justine woke, feeling damp along the back of her ski suit. The early afternoon sunshine had melted some of the snow, and the cemetery walkways were slush. She rose awkwardly, trying not to disturb the snow angel, now the mustardy color of dead grass.

      The supermarket smelled of fresh meat and wet wool. Justine bought some soup and frozen dinners and was contemplating how many of the green bananas she should buy since they would all ripen at the same time. It never used matter; if they got darkish she would always make banana bread, David's favorite. She picked up a bunch of four, intending to separate two.
      " Justine, dear!"
      Her shoulders tensed. Mrs. Meyer. Old enough to call everyone dear. Deaf enough that she tended to shout.
      Mrs. Meyer's camelhair coat might have fit her ten years before. But at seventy-something she'd grown into a stoop, so the front of the coat almost reached the floor while the back swung free. "A lovely day, don't you think?" she asked, smiling up at Justine.
      Justine barely managed to agree.
      "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Is this a hard day for you?"
      She wanted to swing the banana bunch at her neighbor's head. Instead she dropped all four of them into her basket. "Just tired," she murmured, moving away.
      Mrs. Meyer called after her. "We haven't had a visit for a while."
      Justine turned her head. "Soon," she said, not stopping.

      Justine had just changed from her damp ski suit to warm fleece and was headed for the sofa when her doorbell rang. Mrs. Meyer stood in the enclosed porch.
      "It's silly, dear, but I saw these fabulous peppers." She held out a plastic bag. "So solid and green. Anyway, I bought the whole sack and I certainly can't use them. I'd like you to take some."
       "That's nice, but I don't cook much anymore."
      "Oh, chop some up in your scrambled eggs. Do you like meatloaf?"
      "It's not a favorite."
      David had always been kinder to Mrs. Meyer than she, and Justine realized he would be embarrassed that their neighbor was still standing in the porch. He had often reminded her that Mrs. Meyer was the one who called 911. "But if she'd minded her own business and not waved at you . . . . "  It was so much easier to argue about Mrs. Meyer than to decide what their future together might be.
      Thinking of David's kindness, Justine stepped back from the door. "Come in. Would you like a cup of tea?"
Mrs. Meyer was tugging at her scarf before her body cleared the door jamb. She slipped her boots off and followed Justine to the kitchen in nyloned feet. "Hot tea is one of the blessings of winter," she said.
      "What's the other one?" Justine asked, filling the kettle.
      Mrs. Meyer laughed. "I know you're joking. You're a wonderful skier."
      Mrs. Meyer's coat was too long to drape over a chair, so the bottom of it scrunched on the floor. Justine pretended not to notice.
      While the kettle sputtered toward boiling, Mrs. Meyer recited her recipe for stuffed peppers. "And they freeze wonderfully. You won't have to cook for a week."
      Finally the water was ready. As Justine poured the tea, she noticed Mrs. Meyer physically gather herself. The woman sat straighter, gripping her hands in her lap. "Justine, dear, I have a huge, huge favor to ask. I hope it won't offend you."
      "I'm beyond being offended, Mrs. Meyer."
      "Please, a smaller favor. Can you call me Evelyn?"
      Justine nodded.
      "It's, well ..." Then she blurted, "Do you still have the baby's bassinette?"
      Clearly, Mrs. Meyer was trying to read her face, so Justine made it impossible. "I've left everything as it was."
Mrs. Meyer had the grace to speak in a tentative voice. "You see, my granddaughter is expecting. They are wonderful kids, but just starting out is hard. The other day she told me it would be a girl, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about the bassinette. I would buy it, of course."
      Justine's jaw clenched. She gripped the edge of the table and saw her fingers go white.
Mrs. Meyer must have seen that, too, because stood and lifted her coat. "I'm so foolish. I'm just a stupid old lady. Please forgive me."
      Justine couldn't move from her chair. Her neighbor struggled to draw on the heavy coat, tears welling in her eyes. As she passed Justine, she gripped her shoulder. "There's no way I can know what you're going through. But I hope you know that I do think of you often. You take care." Her hand lifted from Justine's shoulder, leaving an imprint of warmth. Something hard inside Justine softened.
      "Wait. I haven't been in the baby's room for a while. Will you come with me?"
      Mrs. Meyer hesitated. "Is it okay?"
      "Yes."
      The room was cold; she'd blocked off the furnace vent. At the foot of Danielle's crib stood the bassinette. When Justine opened the blinds, sunshine lit it up: pink ribbons, white lace, a hand-crocheted coverlet.
      "Oh," Mrs. Meyer said. "I'd forgotten how lovely it is. Of course you'd never part with it."
      It was so much lovelier with my baby in it, Justine thought. It was so much lovelier when cooing sounds came from it, when soft, round legs kicked, when toes stretched toward the ceiling. "Has your granddaughter chosen a name?" she asked.
      "Amelia Marie. They'll call her Amy."
      Mrs. Meyer kept her eyes on the bassinette, and Justine stared at the floor. Then Justine said, "Okay."
      They rolled the bassinette along the damp sidewalk, hoisting it up the steps and into Mrs. Meyer's house. They set it down in the living room. In the quiet Justine heard Mrs. Meyer's furnace come on. When the woman reached for her purse, Justine shook her head. "My gift."
      "Thank you, again," Mrs. Meyer said.
      Justine returned home, put on a jacket and walked to the cemetery. It was the first time she'd been there twice in one day. The snow angel was now a five-pronged soggy mess. She sat on the ground between the two headstones and leaned toward Danielle. "I gave away your first bed," she whispered.
      The next day she took down the mobiles in the nursery and stripped the wallpaper. She stuffed the baby's clothes into drawers and slid the dresser into the closet. She bought a decorating book. Her dark office furniture, which now crowded the dining room, might look good against a pale green wall.
      For two days she felt enthusiasm for a new life, but on the third she woke feeling uneasy. The coffee smelled harsh. When she sat down to her transcription, the computer keys confused her. She shoved the keyboard, crashing it into the monitor. She pushed herself up from the chair feeling the familiar weight of grief. She sat back down at her keyboard and typed GRIEF in 24-point font. She stared at the word and it became a jumble of nonsense. IF, FIRE RIFE, RIG.  IF, FIRE, RIFE, RIG. It had a rhythm. She began to hum the words in sequence. She walked to the nursery and dug Danielle's dresses out of a drawer. Still humming, she stacked them in a corner of the room with the baby's first birthday dress on top. She organized blankets, sun bonnets, jackets, overalls, t-shirts, all the time nodding to the rhythm of the words in her head. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she re-sorted some piles of clothing by color.
      She opened Danielle's toy box and hugged a brown teddy bear to her heart. Baby powder rose from the bear's body. The aroma cleared her mind of the silliness. She pressed her face into the bear's fur. "Oh, Teddy, Teddy," she whispered.
      All that night she stared through the darkness. At first light, while the sky was still gray, she got into her ski suit and walked to the cemetery. It was an ugly morning; the wind slammed snow crystals at her face. She pulled her knitted cap lower and hugged her body with her arms, but by the time she reached the graves she was shaking from cold. Yesterday's soft snow had crusted during the night. Stretching out over the ground she made Danielle another snow angel. A space had opened between the top of her gloves and the sleeves of her suit. As she dragged her arms back and forth, ice scraped at the skin on her wrists, near the old scars. The angel complete, she curled into a ball with her forehead touching Danielle's headstone. Snow pellets found refuge in the tucks of her elbows and knees, in the gap between woollen cap and eyelashes . Then they fell quicker, thicker, swirling as though mad. They began to pile. Before the sun was strong enough to cast shadows there was no blue suit, only white. Justine drew breath so deeply that her lungs went cold. Then she expelled all the moist air, blowing it into the ground.