Lily was focused on one thing, the event Diana had been determined to stay alive for, but had missed by three scant days: Party party party. Three years old. Daddy's big girl didn't come up to my waist, wasn't close to seeing above the bathroom sink and finding her reflection, couldn't have weighed 30 pounds.
This was going to be her first real birthday party. Common sense—belonging to anyone within a blast radius— dictated it would have been cruel to ruin the festivities for her. I concentrated on the tasks at hand: Making calls to a woman who ran a funeral home out of her Brooklyn apartment (for a reasonable price she handled the cremation); following up with a Ninth Avenue bakery (confirming the color of the iced letters, the birthday message on the double-chocolate cake).
Peg, Diana's mother, was in shock, numb with grief, exhausted by sitting witness to what her only child had been through. The chance to be with Lily—to help her granddaughter—was the only thing keeping her in one piece. She and Diana's friend Susannah helped Lily into a sleeveless formal dress.
Lily preened in the midnight blue gown, marveling at the silk flowers around its waist. The frock was a little too big, its hem grazing the floor. Lily twisted in place, swishing the tulle back and forth, giggling at the little rustling sounds.
Her face glowed from some inner place, her eyes sizzled gray, their green flecks shining. Ko—the sitter—asked Lily to hold still, dutifully worked Lily's hair i.
