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home party for her return.
    Eleonoora had watched her mother’s hand as it cut another piece of cake. The hand trembled slightly as she pressed the cake knife into the frosting. Maybe it was because of the diapers lurking on the other side of the wall; she had to prove that she still belonged with the kind of people who choose for themselves what they want to eat, who praise the flavor of the cake.
    â€œHave another piece. It’s not good for you, but it’s not exactly bad for you either.”
    As she sat there, Eleonoora remembered her mother’s severe expression when she was a child and had behaved badly once when they were out. It was like a wall; she thought she’d lost her approval and affection for good. But in the tram on the way home her mother had taken her onto her lap, her soft, slightly sweaty thighs against Eleonoora’s damp skin. She had felt such a great gratitude for her mother’s affection that she burst into tears.
    How recent those days seemed, when her mother was a queen whose approval she thirsted for. Now her mother whined, made demands like a child, acted stubborn, capricious. She never did it to Dad, only to Eleonoora.
    Eleonoora never would have guessed that it would feel like this, stupefyingly lonely, the role of the one in control.
    She went to sit on the living room sofa and looked at Anna across the room—her father’s portrait of Anna was hanging on the wall. She’d always felt both tender and sad when she looked at the painting. Anna sitting on a small stool, thoughtful, with the world on her shoulders. There were oranges in the background, bright as the sun. He had accentuated the shadow on the left side of her face as if he wanted to particularly mark the difference between the areas where the oranges and the shadows were.
    There was a companion picture, a darker, bleaker composition—he had planned it as some sort of diptych. Eleonoora didn’t know where the other painting had gone.
    Yesterday she had seen all of these expressions in Anna, including this seriousness, and the childhood look of concealment.
    Mom had resisted their caregiving plan, wanted to treat hospice care as visits. Just come when you want to come. We’ll have coffee. Anna had offered to take the first shift. Eleonoora searched Anna’s face for signs of dread and Anna glanced at her quickly, recognized her expression, and nodded emphatically, defying her doubts. Eleonoora remembered how when Anna was five she had burst into tears when she was told to try to do a somersault in gymnastics class. Her trembling chin, her eyes searching the corners for a place to escape. That look was still in her, somewhere behind her look of assurance. Eleonoora knew all her fears, all her sorrows, from the smallest to the largest. I’ll come tomorrow, Anna had said again.
    Eleonoora looked at Anna’s face glowing through the darkness. It seemed to be floating toward her.
    She decided that Anna would be all right with her grandmother for an afternoon. She wouldn’t worry about it.
    She needed both hands to keep the panic at a distance.

3
    A NNA IS STANDING in the hallway in front of the apartment door. It’s like any other day at her grandma and grandpa’s house. A summer day from the past, when she was six years old. Or even yesterday, when they ate too-sweet cake and she staved off her panic and promised to come today.
    It’s the only thing she knows how to do for her mother. Day after day Anna sees her mother’s grief grow heavier, trembling behind her mask of efficiency. Sometimes she takes off her mask for a moment when she thinks no one can see her, and she looks completely helpless.
    YESTERDAY ANNA’S MOTHER was clearing away the dishes, went into the kitchen to put the plates in the dishwasher, and let her expression drop. Suddenly it was as if Anna had no hands. She would have liked to take her mother in her arms.
    She wants to comfort her