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for a while.
    Kevin and Jayna Feldman were still in their pajamas, eating Pop-Tarts and watching Saved by the Bell . Their living room was enormous, carpeted wall-to-wall with blue shag. Ronnie Feldman had hooked the television up to speakers, and I remember the loud sitcom and a strawberry Pop-Tart, a cozy place on the leather sectional, laughing at nerdy Screech. I was a nerd myself at Holt Elementary. My looks differentiated me from the cool fifth-grade girls, who all had hair as straight and thin as silk—hair like my mother’s.
    The night before she died, my mother had promised to take me to the Stamford mall. She couldn’t stand the mall, preferring to order from catalogs, but I had been anticipating the shopping trip all week. My mother’s salary had to support our whole family, but she indulged me. She must have known that expensive clothes and lip gloss helped me feel confident. After a bit of shopping, we usually ate cheeseburgers at Friendly’s, my mother happily ordering the fried mozzarella sticks, never flinching when I ate heartily, joining right in with me, saying, “Come on, lovebug, just a little sweet something,” when the waitress brought the dessert menu.
    I was eight—too old to hold my mother’s hand, to love her so much, but I did it anyway. By the time I was an angry teenager, there were only my grandparents, Merilee and Morton, to rebel against, and instead of fighting back, they sent me to boarding school in Austin with a trunk full of nylon sweaters and name tags that read LAUREN M , as if I could hide my last name, and my history, so easily.
    I loved my grandparents, and I was thankful for them. But I never felt as if they wanted me around, not really. My grandparents were worn out and sad. They took care of me perfunctorily, as if I were an endless to-do list. I had clothes, check. I had food. I even had a psychiatrist for a year, but I refused to talk about my mother, and eventually, Alex and I convinced our grandparents that we were fine.
    Maybe we were fine. Alex had believed from the start that my father was innocent. As appealing as this idea was, my logical mind couldn’t quite believe it. I didn’t remember what I had seen in my parents’ bedroom, but a terror stayed with me—it had been something horrific. They fought often and wildly; it was not impossible that my father had simply gone too far. My grandparents told us with drawn faces and in sober tones that our father was not a bad man, but he had done a very bad thing and would spend the rest of his life in jail. There was no evidence of a break-in. My father had no alibi. The facts just added up, for me.
    Alex and I talked about that night once in a while, but I grew impatient with his exceedingly elaborate fantasies, his plans to prove our father’s innocence. I hated Alex’s weak spot—his belief in our father. I needed for Alex to be the strong one, the one who took care of me. He was the only other person in the world who understood my strange orphanhood. Only Alex and I knew how fragile the world really was.
    Over the years, I refined my fake story to effectively erase my father from the picture. My parents were killed in a plane crash, I told friends. Throughout boarding school and into my freshman year of college, I checked my mail infrequently and tossed any letters from my father into the trash.
    Alex, who wrote to Izaan regularly, even visiting once when Morton agreed to accompany him to New York, told me he had asked our father to keep copies of all the letters he sent to me. “Mark my words,” he said (Alex was prone to such professorial statements; he had a doctor’s authority before he even graduated from high school), “you’re going to want to read them someday.”
    It was during my senior year at UT when I finally reached the end of my rope with Alex. He had arrived with some Harvard buddies during a Tri Delt mixer, charming all my friends with his blather and homegrown weed. After spending the