“Marsha St. Paul? Marsha St. Paul?” My aunt’s voice rises as she reads the beige toe tag in her hand, almost obscuring the squeak of wheels fading in the distance.

The syllables scatter my family: my mother’s best friend has teleported herself to the nurses’ station, my brother hurling his substantial self down the hallway toward the elevator.

My father, aunt, and I stand in the morning sun that fills the room, weaving on legs heavy with long nights, grief, and junk food as voices swirl around us.

I am a child of an American family with British wit. I feel a bubble. Then another. Another. Just as they become piled irresistibly close to the surface, my mother’s best friend returns, then my brother.

“I should have figured they wouldn’t take her out the front.”

The staff who come in despondent and apologetic are bewildered at our tears, flowing as we shake what is left of us with howls of laughter, savoring Mom’s final gift.