He didn’t look at me. As much as I wanted to avoid his eye after what I’d done, I didn’t know what to make of that. He stared blankly at Emma’s mother’s hutch opposite the sink. Inside it were three generations of wedding China—chipped and faded, cleaned and coddled, barely used—strata of happiness and woe.
He sighed. “You ever wonder what it is that makes a person the person you know?”
The question seemed dangerous, but he didn’t wait for an answer.
“Blood and bones and everything else you see in someone—a corpse has all that, but there’s something missing in the face of death, isn’t there? They never look like the person they were.”
