Another unwelcome memory bubbled up from the La Brea tar at the back of Bailey’s mind. Her mother, lying in an empty bathtub in Bailey’s father’s flannel robe, sobbing, unaware that her kindergarten daughter was peering through the cracked door. Her kindergarten daughter who was wondering why her daddy had left and made her mother so miserable. It could have been yesterday, an hour ago, ten minutes before. There’d been a bumpy mosquito bite on Bailey’s calf and she’d stood there, silent, scratching it until it bled like red tears into her thin white sock.

A shudder jolted her back to the present, and she shoved the recollection down and cleared her throat. Old memories, just another reason to get away from here ASAP. Trying to sound normal, she asked, “Is that the top half of Harry’s high school uniform you’re wearing?”

Her mother absently plucked at the slippery fabric, the hem nearly reaching her knees. “It’s comfortable.”

“So’s a shower curtain, Mom, but it’s not a good look. What are you doing in here?”

“I…” Her mother shrugged, then made a vague gesture behind her. “Just, just…”

Bailey stepped inside the room to peer around her mother’s newly skinny body. “You’re eating in here?” A small saucepan, more than half full of mac and cheese, was on the bedspread behind her mother, a fork jammed in the middle. “You’re eating out of the pan?”

Okay, Bailey ate out of pans often enough. Weren’t Lean Cuisine microwave trays pans, after all? But her mother didn’t eat out of them. And her mother didn’t let people eat in bedrooms.

Bailey snatched up the food and tried catching her mother’s eye. “Mom, we need to talk.”

“Are you hungry?” Tracy asked, her own gaze wandering off. “It’s not from a box. It’s my recipe.”