She smooths her dark hair and bends to tug off her rubber boots, caked with dirty snow and ashes from the street. Maggie examines her own image in the mirror above the coat rack. It’s hard seeing her beloved Grandmother Eileen and friend-the one who’s been her refuge in a house full of loud, growing brothers-as she lies there in bed with sunken eyes, and hands grasping restlessly at the quilt, moaning in pain. She dreads entering that bedroom these days. Glancing up, she notices her mother standing very still on the shadowy landing. In the foyer, she pulls off the too-thin gloves. Tall and slim, she looks more like a high school girl than she does an eighth-grader at Holy Name Catholic School. Maggie’s fingers are frozen as she reaches the front door of the big house on Barrett Street.
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