One afternoon she visited with a photograph of her mother standing in the rehabilitation center garden.

Miriam was smiling into the sunlight, holding a tray of little purple flowers.

“She wanted you to know you were more than a patient,” Joanna said.

“She thought you were brave because you kept asking what you could learn next.”

I smiled faintly.

“Tell me about her,” I said.

Joanna talked for nearly an hour: about Miriam’s terrible singing, the soup she made every winter, the way she collected broken umbrellas because she couldn’t stand to throw anything useful away.

I thought of the letter I’d found beneath the bed.