Marigold Yuen used to think she had a knack for fixing things. C’s in chemistry, car lockouts, and tangled cassette tapes, even ankle sprains—every aunty north of Ashby Avenue knew to come to her for a miracle repair.

But at twenty-four, she had learned that there were two things beyond her skill: the heart she’d broken, for one. Then there was her mother.

Helen had slipped away to the airplane lavatory fifteen minutes ago. Were it anyone else, Marigold would have assumed a case of first-flight nerves—nothing to worry about. Except this was her mother.

Nothing was normal when it came to her mother.

“Miss?” A stewardess knelt at Marigold’s side. “Your friend needs to return to her seat. We’re getting ready for departure.”

Marigold unbuckled her safety belt. That’s my mom, not my friend, she thought, but she kept it to herself. Best to spare everyone the awkward soliloquy about how young Helen looked and how little she resembled her. “I’ll see if she’s all right.”

“Please hurry, we’re number three for takeoff.”

Marigold made her way down the narrow aisle to the back of the plane, ignoring the glares of her fellow passengers. The lavatory door read Occupied.

“Mom.” Marigold knocked. “Are you all right?”

No answer.

“I’ve got po chai yuen if you need it for your stomach.”

Still no response. Marigold twisted her hands. She was starting to get nervous.

The thing was, her mother had a habit of disappearing. Not disappearing, the way Professor Thompson’s wife had run off with the IRS agent right before finals, or when Aunty Yip’s niece disappeared to Fresno for a month after getting plastic surgery on her nose.

Literally vanishing.

Three times in her life, Marigold had witnessed it happen. One minute, Helen was physically whole—from the tortoise-shell barrette in her hair, to the slight gap between her bottom front teeth, to the lumpy callouses on her palms—she was flesh and bone. She was matter. Then, with little warning, impossibly, she was gone.