Emily Vaughn frowned at the mirror. The dress was as beautiful as it had been in the store. Her body was the problem. She turned, then turned again, trying to find an angle that didn’t make her look like she’d thrown herself onto the beach like a dying whale.

From the corner, Gram said, “Rose, you should stay away from the cookies.”

Emily took a moment to recalibrate. Rose was Gram’s sister who’d died of tuberculosis during the Great Depression. Emily’s middle name was in honor of the girl.

“Gram.” She pressed her hand to her stomach, telling her grandmother, “I don’t think it’s the cookies.”

“Are you sure?” A sly smile rippled Gram’s lips. “I was hoping you would share.”

Emily gave her reflection another disapproving frown before forcing a smile onto her face. She knelt awkwardly in front of her grandmother’s rocking chair. The old woman was knitting a sweater that would fit a child. Her fingers dipped in and out of the tiny, puckered collar like hummingbirds. The long sleeve of her Victorian-style dress had pulled back. Emily gently touched the deep purple bruise ringing her bony wrist.

“Clumsy-mumsy.” Gram’s tone had the sing-song quality of one thousand excuses. “Freddy, you must change out of that dress before Papa gets home.”

Now Gram thought Emily was her uncle Fred. Dementia was nothing if not a stroll through the many skeletons lining the family closet.

Emily asked, “Would you like me to get you some cookies?”

“That would be wonderful.” Gram continued to knit but her eyes, which never really focused on anything, suddenly became transfixed by Emily. Her lips curved into a smile. Her head tilted to the side as if she was studying the pearlescent lining of a seashell. “Look at your beautiful, smooth skin. You’re so lovely.”

“It runs in the family.” Emily marveled at the almost tangible state of knowing that had transformed her grandmother’s gaze. She was there again, as if a broom had swept the cobwebs from her cluttered brain.