"Yes."

"What's up, son?"

"I'm bringing Annie home to see you."

"Great. Are you coming straight from Florida?"

"You could say that. We're coming today."

"Today? Is she sick?"

"No. Not physically, anyway. Dad, I'm selling the house in Houston and moving back home for a while. What comes after that, I'll figure out later. Have you got room for us?"

"God almighty, son. Let me call your mother."

I hear my father shout, then the clicking of heels followed by my mother's voice. "Penn? Are you really coming home?"

"We'll be there tonight."

"Thank God. We'll pick you up at the airport."

"No, don't. I'll rent a car."

"Oh… all right. I just… I can't tell you how glad I am."

Something in my mother's voice triggers an alarm. I can't say what it is, because it's in the spaces, not the words, the way you hear things in families. Whatever it is, it's serious. Peggy Cage does not worry about little things.

"Mom? What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm just glad you're coming home."

There is no more inept liar than someone who has spent a lifetime telling the truth. "Mom, don't try to-"

"We'll talk when you get here. You just bring that little girl where she belongs."

I recall Cilia's opinion that my mother was upset when she called yesterday. But there's no point in forcing the issue on the phone. I'll be face to face with her in a few hours. "We'll be there tonight. Bye."

My hand shakes as I set the receiver in its cradle. For a prodigal son, a journey home after eighteen years is a sacred one. I've been home for a few Christmases and Thanksgivings, but this is different. Looking down at Annie, I get one of the thousand-volt shocks of recognition that has hit me so many times since the funeral. Sometimes Sarah's face peers out from Annie's as surely as if her spirit has temporarily possessed the child. But if this is a possession, it is a benign one. Annie's hazel eyes transfix mine with a look that gave me much peace when it shone from Sarah's face: This is the right thing, it says.