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laundry, been a milkman, worked in a pharmacy—and now he worked in a jewelry store.
    This morning my father wanted only his usual toast and coffee.
    “Some eggs or some oatmeal maybe, Al? You can’t work for hours on a piece of toast.” My mother worried that he didn’t eat right when he was away from her. He was thin as a rail, and she suspected he made time only for coffee and cigarette breaks during the day.
    After fifteen years of marriage, she still thought she could change his habits.
    “Nope, that’s all I need. And hugs from my girls, of course,” he said.
    He reached over to give little Linda a tender squeeze. Donna, the seven-year-old, came over to his chair for a full-on good-bye hug, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding her cheek next to his for a moment. A warm knot took hold of his chest as he hugged her back.
    “Bye, Daddy, have a good day,” she told him.
    He let her hang on for a minute, then extracted himself.
    My mother pecked him on the cheek, handed him his coat and his black Dick Tracy hat, and he was out the door. Whistling, he sprang into his 1950 Buick Special with the black leather seats. He loved getting into that car—the first car he ever owned—and driving the couple of miles to his job at Goldblatt Jewelers. He lit a cigarette with the car lighter, inhaled his first puff deeply, opened the front side-vent window, and slowly began to drive away.
    Donna waved from the window.

chapter five

    1953
    A FTER THE SURGERY to lift Linda’s chin off of her chest where flames had welded the two together, she needed X-ray treatments to prevent keloid (thickened) scars from forming. She was three and a half.
    My mother said that when Linda saw the gigantic X-ray machine, she became hysterical and could not be calmed. As the technicians tried to restrain her, my mother intervened, quickly grabbing Linda up from the table and ordering them to stop. They just shook their heads, realizing their schedule had been blown for the morning.
    “There’s no reason to put her through this now. I’ll bring her back in a week,” my mother told them. “She’ll be ready then. Give me a week.” And she ushered Linda from the exam room.
    At home, my parents built a mini model of the X-ray machine—just the size for Linda’s doll, Sandy, to use. My father was diligent in constructing the X-ray machine model, finding pictures in the library of the actual machine used in the hospital and replicating it with tin foil and cardboard.
    For a week, Linda gave Sandy her X-ray treatments every day, positioning her carefully and lowering the model X-ray machine close to her, but never touching her. My mother explained exactly what would happen to Sandy each time:
    “She just has to lie still while the machine does its job, and she won’t feel anything, see honey?”
    It was a brilliant ploy, putting Linda in charge and showing her that Sandy was unharmed.
    Sandy had black hair and green eyes just like Linda. When Linda went into surgery, Sandy did too. Operating room nurses always made sure that Sandy had the exact same bandages as Linda. And they used the doll to explain what would happen to her before each surgery.

chapter six

    2005
    M Y COFFEE IS getting cold on my desk. There is work for me to get to, but I can’t seem to concentrate on the brochure draft I’m meant to deliver tomorrow to a client. This new insurance product is not holding my interest. I’m searching for new words to say “best” that their legal team will let me use. Improved . . . competitive . . . enhanced . . .
    Instead of working, I wind up heating up my coffee in the microwave and bringing it downstairs to the basement where I’ve stored my parents’ things: the photo albums and memorabilia that I brought back with me from their apartment.
    Years ago, when I first told them I wanted to write, they began giving me clippings from the newspaper accounts of the crash. They started writing down notes for me. Then Linda