A series of thunderstorms rumbling along the coast from Mexico to southern California has driven up the humidity. Emma, standing by the deep end of the pool, watches her sister Rose close the shutters inside her house against the heat. The branches of a huge cypress reach across the garden and cast shadows on the surface of the water.

“It’s okay to go in,” Rose calls as she walks onto the terrace. A sudden breeze floats the skirt of her dress, ruffling the hair of the dog at her feet, a tan Norfolk terrier named William Beckett. Emma looks down, tugging at the borrowed bathing suit.

“Go on,” Rose says.

Emma lowers herself into the pool, working her way around a dragonfly hovering on the surface and swims a few laps through curled mulberry leaves. She takes a deep breath and allows herself to sink straight to the bottom, wondering how long it takes to drown. She waits until she runs out of breath and opens her mouth. Above her, heat lightning flares against the horizon, reflecting off the water. Rose and William Beckett peer in at her, their faces watery and distorted. 

“What are you doing?” Rose calls from the edge of the pool, her voice eerie and distant.  

Emma surfaces, coughing.

“I hope the pool service remembers we’re having a party tonight.” Rose hands her a towel and checks her watch. “I better call them.”

“I guess I’ve come at a bad time.”

Rose gazes at her, unfocused. “What?” She slaps at a gnat. “I wonder if I should have had the garden fogged.”

Back inside the house, Emma watches as Rose goes through all the kitchen drawers until she finds a pack of cigarettes and some matches. “Richard isn’t keen on my smoking.” She lights up and pulls smoke into her lungs.  “What did you do to your hair?”

“Like it?” Emma asks, running her fingers through the hacked off blonde tangle. She has exchanged the bathing suit for her warmups and a pair of sunglasses and is popping candy corn into her mouth from a small sack she keeps in a pocket. 

“Let’s get your gear moved off the table–you always dump everything in the first available spot.” She reaches for Emma’s bag but before Rose can move, Emma has snatched them up. 

“Oops, sorry, just checking to see if you brought your meds. So, did they give you time off for good behavior?” Rose asks.

“From the loony bin?” Emma pockets her candy and reaches for Rose’s cigarette.

“I hope you don’t use that term tonight.”

“Why not?” She lifts herself onto the counter and addresses the dog. “I don’t think our Rose wants it known that she has a sister. Especially one who’s in Pond House. She prefers to think I’m not part of the family. What’s your opinion on this?” William Beckett, from his dog bed by the French door, says I heard they found you in baggage claim. Emma studies the dog. Then to her sister, “So, you’re having a party.”

Rose, often speechless around her sister, takes a minute to respond. “A party, yes. 

Since Richard’s being considered by the surgical staff at USC to join the team, we thought we should have the department heads and their wives to dinner. They’re driving down for the evening. And Richard’s brother. You remember him from our wedding? He’ll be here too. So. Everything has to be perfect,” Rose says. “It will be nice to have you, even if we didn’t know you were coming.”

The two sisters stare past one another.

Growing up, there were parties every weekend. The guests stayed until the sun came up. Their father George, in his two-toned wingtips and striped button downs, had been an attorney to the Stars. He was a gentle man, with kind blue eyes and thinning hair, dealing patiently with their mother Eleanor’s rages and silent stares. Emma recalls her mother singing at their parties, curiously beautiful, surrounded by members of the band, dressed in a shapeless robe of fuchsia-colored cloth, her ritual garment, her feet bare, her long straight hair parted high. Emma still holds the thrill of that voice, the beauty of it, as clear and cool as a mountain stream. She and Rose used to sit on the stairs to the pantry, after they’d drained the dregs from the cocktail glasses, listening to the sounds of the party. This was before they helped Eleanor, often crying like a poisoned bird, up the stairs to bed. The guests, mainly in the film industry, with wavering, translucent smiles and fluttering hands, drank until they fell down. 

“Yeah, I’m doing so well, they let me out for my birthday.”

“Oh, my God,” Rose says. “I thought it was next week.”

“Twenty-two today.”

“Twenty-two!” There’s an awkward embrace between them as Emma slips off the counter. 

“So, you’re doing well?”

“Doing well.” Emma knew Rose needed to hear that. “Stefan’s pleased that I’ve left the couch to sit on the floor with everyone else. And I’m showing some insight into my dreams. That’s earned me points. I get to sit in his lap and play with his ears.”

“Stefan?” Smoke curls between their faces as they pass the cigarette back and forth.

“Yeah, he’s our therapist.” 

“I hope you’re kidding.” 

“He’s a Polish priest. Sometimes he watches us as if he has solved the equation but won’t tell us. He’s teaching us to speak Polish. Dzien dobry, jak sie masz? He has all sorts of artifacts from his previous life and he’ll trade to anyone who wants them. Foreign coins, votive candles. I gave him my watch for a rosary. But honestly, in spite of his tattoos and earrings, his stories of doing meth and cooking potatoes on a beach, you could never pick him out of a line-up of other Stefans.” She can see the growing concern in the tilt of Rose’s head.

“Do you still blame me?” Rose asks.

Emma takes the cigarette, inhales and blows perfect smoke rings toward the ceiling. “See what I’ve learned to do.” She blows one toward the dog, causing him to sneeze. “Have you ever seen a drowned person? Washed up with the current and looking bloated? Of course you haven’t, you weren’t there. Mother had a one inch crab in her ear. And, kelp and some weird shit in her hair.”

Rose pulls a chair from the table and sits down. She stares at her hands.

“No wait. Blame you because you signed me up for the nut house?” Emma bursts into laughter. “Don’t worry about it. Actually, it’s nice there.”

“You have Mother’s eyes,” Rose says. “And her way of looking at someone as if you’ll rip their throat.” No one speaks until an air conditioner kicks off in another part of the house. Rose turns her head in that direction. 

“Each Sunday,” Emma won’t stop, “there’s a small chapel service for whoever offed themselves the previous week. Thursday it was Arnold from Santa Cruz. After lunch, he confessed he’d always wanted to be a mime. Seven hours later he hung himself. I’ve thought about doing it, but it would be redundant.” Abruptly, she shuts up.

Rose pushes her chair back and stands. “I have a party to get ready for.” The caterers are going to arrive mid-afternoon. They will serve cold lobster and tenderloin of beef. And after, orange crepes. On the counter are numerous glasses and bottles of wine, one of which has been opened. Rose pours a small amount and takes a sip. “Richard should like this one.”

Emma picks up an empty glass and holds it out.

“Probably not a good idea. I mean with whatever you’re on. I don’t know what the rules are.”

“Hey, come on. It’s my birthday.”

“Do you have something to wear for tonight?” Rose asks, returning her glass to the counter.

Emma looks down at her gray sweats, the prescribed lunatic uniform.

“I’ll lend you something.” She crushes the cigarette in the sink and brushes ash from the front of her dress.

In the dining room, the sisters survey the table and the china plates. Emma lifts a linen napkin, smells it, and returns it to its place. Lush hydrangeas fill the center of the table, and more than a dozen candles wait to be lit. On the wall over the sideboard hangs a small Milton Avery of a field full of lopsided cows. Emma always loved this painting. She touches the frame, counts the cows as she did when she was little. She examines other familiar items with her fingertips. Rose has more than the china and the napkins, she has everything that belonged to their family. Including Eleanor’s pearls which she’s wearing around her neck. “This is some fucking production,” Emma says, picking up a crystal goblet, ready to drop it on the floor.

“Careful.” Rose takes the glass from Emma’s hand. “Let’s go make some sandwiches.”

Back in the kitchen, Rose pours more wine for herself, drinking it down in one quick gulp. As she opens the refrigerator, the phone rings. Emma, calm now, sits quietly.

“Yes,” Rose says into the receiver. There’s a long pause. “Why? I see. Well, I need you here. And this is for you. The two of you, don’t be too late.”

In the reflection of the glass door that leads to the terrace, Rose’s face stiffens, falls apart, recomposes, in no more time than it takes to draw a single breath. She kneels, her arms around William Beckett, holding onto him as he looks up at Emma. And you thought you were the only one who had your mother’s map to a place that doesn’t exist, he says to her. 

A radio is playing in the room where Emma is to sleep–it’s been on since she arrived this morning. She turns it off. With a creaking sound, the house settles, then it’s quiet. Her grandmother’s canopied bed has a coverlet made of tufted cotton. A plump little chair sits- slipcovered in chintz. 

Emma hears voices in the garden below. The pool cleaners are finishing up.

She removes her dark glasses and lies across the bed, then turns onto her stomach. She imagines a room like this for herself. A bathroom with glass cabinets and thick, pale-colored towels. She’d have to change her habits to fit in to such a place. Already, her few things are scattered through the room like bits of rabbit fur, marking her trail. This morning, the ride into this rose and umber-colored settlement of bridges and bicyclists and sidewalks veined with moss, was a reminder that she was like a starling here, flinging itself at the windows.

The glow from the clock illuminates a framed photo of Rose and herself. She was eight and Rose was fourteen. The stood in the gentle surf of the ocean, bare-legged and sun-bleached. Rose’s budding breasts visible under her shirt, her own hair an unruly halo around her head. Rose had her first period that summer. Neither of them knew then, holding hands, easing forward in childish hope, that their mother would end her life. Nor did Emma know that the day was coming when Rose, with her matching luggage, would leave for school and she’d be left behind.  To deal with a collapsing father.

She hears arguing down the hall. Richard is home. She hears the muted ticking of the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall, water swelling on the lip of the bathroom faucet, the thrum of a florescent light. Emma has yet to sign her name to this life.

When it quiets down, she leaves the room to look for Rose. She finds her at her bedroom window. 

“It’s starting to drizzle,” Rose says. “We won’t be able to sit outside.”

Emma joins her, two figures in a vanishing light, their faces floating in front of them as rain splatters the panes of glass. They hear cars passing on the road.

“Do you still call yourself Emma?” Rose asks. “Or do you go by, what was the other name?”

“China Moon.”

“Right. What happened to her?”

“She disappeared down the Huangpu River on her way to the East China Sea. You should have seen the monkeys lined up along the banks, waving and clapping as she went by. It was a real sendoff.”

“How do you know about the Huangpu?” 

“Mother used to sing stories to us about a golden boat on a long dark river.”

“I don’t think she meant the Huangpu. It’s in Shanghai and full of bodies.”

“Is it? I guess it was perfect then.” Emma searched her sister’s face. “Remember the story Mother told us about a magical garden on the other side of the ocean? And the only way to get there was on a sailboat with a translucent keel?”

“What do they have you on? The doctors?” Rose asks, turning toward Emma.

“Do you think Mother wanted to reach that garden and she couldn’t find a sailboat so she decided to swim? Do you think maybe she didn’t want to die?”

“Seroquel?” Rose asks. 

Eleanor used to trace circles on Emma’s cheeks, marking her for a life of extraordinary imaginings. Back in her room, Emma goes to the mirror, examining her face for tracks. She rubs the glass with her hand but can’t see them. What she can see is Richard’s brother standing in the doorway behind her. He resembles a boxer more than a radiologist, his thin hard frame, a broken nose set in a handsome face. His composed expression. When he makes no move to leave, she’s suddenly aware of the shape of the room. The shape of what’s to come, and she knows, with no hesitation, that this is what she wants. She feels herself heating up, as if she’s  edging toward an episode. She tugs the sweatshirt over her head and kicks off the pants. Past the window, she hears a rumble of thunder, and a slap of branches against the house. She closes her eyes and waits, counting the seconds – fourteen, twenty-three, thirty-six.

In the shadows of the bedroom, the outline of the furniture unclear, he pushes her against a wall, mapping her skin with his fingers. He takes his time, he’s been there before.

He doesn’t know that he and Emma can be seen through the window. Or, that in this  moment she is watching the first guests arrive, large sedans pulling into the graveled drive with lights blazing. She sees them, in their good clothes, emerging to look around, stepping gingerly because of the rain, making their way to the house. One of the guests looks up, then another, and Emma waves. Rose, standing by the front entrance with an umbrella, walks a few feet away, looking up also.

As Richard’s brother strolls off, hands in his pockets, Emma feels unwrapped, revealed. For her, a small victory, as she’s claimed a part of the day for herself. She lifts the dress Rose has left for her and slips her arms through the straps, thinking how amazing she looks. She smears blush on her cheeks, unaware that Rose has called the home where Emma resides to check if she’s gone off her meds and discovers that she left without anyone knowing she had gone.

More guests arrive. Emma, in the kitchen, pouring herself a second glass of vodka, peeks out and sees Raymond from the nursing staff.

“Here you are,” he says as he spots her. “You’re in trouble, but I guess you know that.” Raymond is wearing green, the color of halls and antiseptic smells. Of syringes and mold in the walls. He smells of cigarettes and his voice carries throughout the house.

Rose turns in his direction. The dog jumps in circles, his nails pattering against the polished oak floor. 

“This is Raymond,” Emma says as Rose joins them.

“I would have come sooner but the van was in use. Is there someplace we can talk?” Raymond asks.

“He’s going to tell you that I ran away,” Emma says.

Rose leads the way, William Beckett following. She passes Richard standing with his brother. “Make sure everyone has a drink. I’ll try not to be too long.”

“I’m going to tell you,” Raymond says, in the kitchen, the refrigerator at his back, “since you’re her only family…”

“And pays the bill,” Emma adds.

“…that our little Emma not only jumped the wall, so to speak, but she must have hitched her way.” He turns to Emma. “Right? You hitched? That was a dangerous, dumb-ass thing to do.”

“I had to come. This is my birthday party.” Emma holds her glass up in a toast. “Na zdrowie!”

“I thought she had permission,” Rose says. “I thought you people brought her, but then I realized….” All around them, the caterers go about the business of slicing meat and stirring sauces. The hollows of her face are deeper now. “What kind of place are you running?”

“Actually, Raymond is an out-of-work actor who deals the drugs he steals from the pharmacy, working temporarily as an aide.” Emma is talking faster now. “Not hugely qualified.”

“Your sister could be asked to leave the facility,” Raymond says.

“Facility?” Emma’s harsh laugh attracts the attention of several guests.

“Plus, she’s obviously drunk. She can’t drink with what she’s on, it’ll send her flying.”

Rose, in her good black dress, looks off, her face shadowed with exhaustion.

Emma’s heart begins to beat in rhythm with the chopping of the caterer’s knife. She hears William Beckett, his small ears flat against his head. It’s show time, he tells her. All the while Raymond is talking, his voice sounding like sludge if sludge could talk, Emma’s mother is singing to her from a crack in the ceiling.

I can’t tell you whyyyy

I can’t tell you why

Richard, with his surgeon’s face, walks up and joins them, asking, is this going to take much longer, we have guests here that we need to attend to. Emma shoves her glass into Rose’s hand and says, “I’m not broken.” Then, jumping from one foot to the other, she raises her fists. Before anyone knows what’s happening, she lands a blow to the side of Richard’s head that sends him stumbling backward into the wine cooler.

On her way to the van, Pond House Sanitarium painted on the side, Emma, dressed once more in her sweats and wearing the pearls she filched from Rose’s jewelry box, passes the last two guests arriving. They glance sidelong with slight alarm at the slender woman, as though Emma might approach them for money. She notices William Beckett has slipped out and is wandering off.

It’s quiet inside the vehicle. The leather upholstery smells reassuringly familiar. It’s raining again. Emma sits in the back seat while Raymond shifts into drive, glancing at her in the rear-view. She studies the back of his head, his thick hands on the wheel. As they pull onto the narrow street, wipers sweeping across the window glass, she thinks of Rose and her ruined party, her dog loose in the neighborhood. Of the flesh and bones of a normal life. A life everyone assures her is so greatly desired. As they round the corner and join the late night flow of traffic along the lighted boulevards, she smiles, feeling the triumph of her birthday and the warming comfort of the drug that Raymond gave her.