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Delia had seen Toni and her family only a handful of times the past three years, even though Knoxville was less than four hours from Delia's home in Georgia. Reading and gardening filled the days, but Delia still felt as if she were slowly disappearing from the world. She wasn't close to any of her neighbors and doubted they would notice if she never came out of her house.

Toni mailed Delia letters: "You must come visit. You shouldn't be alone. It's not healthy."

Typical. Her older sister offered support with a command and a judgment. In the latest letter Toni included pictures of her two daughters and husband, who was recovering from a prostate operation. His face puffed into unattractive clouds, as if sitting down produced excruciating pain. "It hurts that bad," Toni wrote on the back of one.

Delia almost shoved the photos into a shoebox, but the pictures of her nieces elicited a dull ache inside her. She wouldn't recognize them if she saw them on the street. At nine, Jennifer's blonde hair fell down her shoulders like a waterfall, and Brandy, the youngest, looked at the world with brown, quiet eyes. How was it possible that children grew so fast?

She held the photos until darkness crept over the sky. Then she threw clothes, toiletries, and plastic bags containing a white, claylike substance into her suitcase. If she didn't recognize her nieces, Delia suspected their memories of her must be murky, relegated to specific events like Christmas or Easter. This made Delia feel completely invisible, and she drove her Malibu station wagon eighty miles an hour to Knoxville. Police didn't stop ghosts for speeding.

***

Toni had already prepared a list of activities for Delia and the children: parks, museums, playgrounds-day outings while Toni was at work. Her sister had written down the exact directions to each place, color-coded by price and drive time. The effort amazed and annoyed Delia.

"How does the bluegrass petting zoo sound?" Delia asked Jennifer and Brandy. "You can pet animals while a farmer strums a mandolin."

"Boring," Jennifer moaned.

"I want to go miniature golfing." Brandy sucked on a butterscotch candy, her cheeks firing red with the declaration.

"You would." Jennifer plopped herself on the back seat of Delia's car.

Delia hadn't been miniature golfing since she and Toni were children, and she wasn't sure what to expect. A pond wound its way through the center of Pete's Miniature Golf Course, and the grounds were landscaped with flowers, plants, and trees. "Wow." Jennifer studied the landscape with a calm, practical eye. "This is fancy."

Delia found putt-putt comforting, the idea of not thinking about the overall picture but instead concentrating on making it from one simple hole to the next. She liked spending time alone with the children. Toni and her husband usually accompanied them, and Delia couldn't remember when only the three of them had gone somewhere. For fun she pretended they were hers. She imagined she had dressed Jennifer and Brandy, combed their hair, and fed them breakfast that morning. The idea was thrilling and strangely comforting.

At the final hole Brandy laughed, a low gurgling sound, when her ball bounced off a cardboard giraffe's butt. The sunlight bleached her pale face, and her long red hair blew wild in the breeze. More than anything, Delia longed to take Brandy in her arms, hold her tightly, and never release her.

Jennifer approached Delia, grabbed her aunt's hand, and whispered, "Mom told us about your baby. We're sorry. Brandy's too young to say so."

Delia glanced at the humid sky and tried to discern shapes in the clouds. Jennifer's words traveled from a far distance; Delia barely heard her. "Wait here. I have to use the bathroom."

She shut the rest room's door and withdrew one of the plastic bags from her jeans. The chalky substance held a consistency between cornstarch and cocaine. Not that Delia actually knew what cocaine looked like. Once she had tried what she thought was cocaine at a party. It turned out to be salt, grainy and generic, and not even a quality brand like Morton's. Delia smelled the ocean for an entire month afterward.

The powder was called kaolin, a form of clay mined in Georgia. The chalk crumbled in her fingers, but she placed as much in her mouth as she could. It dissolved quickly, and her tongue always turned a yellowish-white hue for hours afterward. Kaolin tasted like the dry heat of an unexpected thunderstorm.

She was more relaxed when she returned. Brandy stood in a small sand trap. She was blocking the shot of a young man, who scowled at her. Jennifer picked up her sister and started carrying her toward Delia's station wagon. "Put me down!" Brandy shrieked.

"I should take you home." There was a steady click as Delia's key turned the ignition. She started driving.

"No. Ice cream! Hot fudge." Brandy licked her lips, as if the velvety coldness were already on her tongue.

Jennifer said, "Mom's gonna be home soon. She'll make dinner."

"I don't think she'd mind if you had ice cream. It's so hot right now."

Jennifer shrugged, sighed, and sank into the backseat. "She will mind. She likes everything just so. But ice cream would be nice."

Delia thought her niece acted too world weary for a nine-year-old. How much damage could the universe possibly have inflicted on her? Brandy suggested a place called the Ice Cream Shack, which was on the outskirts of Knoxville. Delia drove slowly. It was a muggy Wednesday afternoon and the streets weren't crowded. The sun streamed into the car; the heat had softened and felt like a protective hand, guiding her gently into the evening. Jennifer said something to her, but Delia was so lost in her head she couldn't make out the words. The drive reminded her of long Sunday afternoon excursions with her parents, riding for hours, not caring when they returned. Toni had squirmed next to her, head facing morosely toward the side ashtray, complaining that she was going to miss Starsky and Hutch.

They ate ice cream under the shade of a maple tree. Delia surprised herself by eating the entire cone. She seldom ate more than one or two meals a day, and she never snacked.

She wanted to continue driving. So did Brandy. "More," she wailed.

Jennifer, pacified by the ice cream, didn't agree or disagree.

Delia drove until she reached the entrance ramp to I-40. The sky bled into a darker shade of blue. She wasn't sure where she was going, and she couldn't remember a time when she felt so awake.

She organized a game, one she and Toni had played on uncomfortable trips as children. "When a car drives by, look at the person in the backseat. Make up a story about them. What do you think their life is like?"

A car passed on Delia's side, and Brandy, who was sitting behind Delia, pointed. "Look at her. She's a rock star."

"No, she's not," Jennifer said. "She's lonely. See how she can barely lift her head? Her husband's probably cheating on her. She'll slit her wrists all over the place. Wait and see."

"OK, let's play a different game." Delia didn't want the conversation to turn to suicide, even if it was hypothetical. When she sat alone for hours it was often difficult to think of anything else. She stretched out such everyday, mundane tasks as making a cup of tea as long as possible. Delia poured cream into the tea drop by drop and watched each white drip spread like ink over the liquid's hot surface. Once her cup of tea lasted two hours because she didn't know what to do in the blank, empty hours that awaited her.

They drove for an hour and a half until they were outside Calhoun, Georgia. When they passed a sign that said, "Welcome to Georgia. The Peach State," Jennifer squeezed the back of Delia's headrest. "Oh, my God. We're in a different state! We need to turn around."

Delia's throat constricted, unsure why Jennifer's words caused her to panic. Frantically, she scanned the darkening horizon and saw a sign that promised a Target. "Do you want to go shopping?"

"Not really," Jennifer said.

"I'm hungry again." Brandy clutched her stomach and leaned forward in the seat.

The children's words morphed into incomprehensible syllables.

Delia took the exit and they entered the world of fluorescent lights. Everything looked bright and artificial to Delia, the clothes, the people. They passed a revolving glass container with pretzels that were topped with a slimy greenish-yellow glaze.

"What's that?" Brandy asked.

"Nuclear waste," Delia said. "We'll get something else later."

Delia bought Brandy pink sandals with a famous cartoon kitten on the soles, but Jennifer didn't want anything. When they passed the pajamas, Delia paused for several moments. "Do you guys want something to sleep in?"

"No," Jennifer said. "We have those at home."

Delia stared at a rack of barrettes. "This is what I think. I lost track of time. I'm sorry. I think. I think we should find a motel and spend the night here. We'll drive back in the morning. We'll get a nice dinner. It'll be fun." Her voice cracked with nervousness on the last word.

"I'll call Toni," she added as an afterthought.

The girls started screaming that they wanted to go home. Now. They used the words weird, creepy, pee, and Coke. Other customers were staring. Finally, Jennifer sighed and placed a protective hand on Brandy's shoulder. "If it makes you feel better, call Mom. Let's eat and go to bed."

Brandy clutched her new sandals and stepped closer to her sister.

The muscles at the back of Delia's neck relaxed. What if the girls had insisted on going back? She wasn't sure what she would have done. She questioned her judgments but in a way that was quite distant from herself - as if she were watching the events on a low-budget, reality-based TV show. She found this element of danger exciting, and the idea of spending the entire night with Jennifer and Brandy filled her with joy. She wouldn't have been surprised if wings grew from her back and she flew down Target's aisles. She purchased everything they would need for the night: socks, underwear, soaps and shampoos, toothbrushes.

There was a Motel 8 across the street from Target. The bedspreads were yellow, the carpet brown and thick - Chewbacca-colored, in Brandy's words. They ate at a diner called Eats. Delia ordered chicken-fried steak and mushroom gravy for them all. She hadn't felt this hungry in a long time. But she still excused herself, walked into the rest room, and ate a few chunks of kaolin before their meal arrived.

Brandy carved the meat with the side of her fork, but Jennifer, unimpressed, snarled at her plate. "I can't eat this. It's canned gravy."

"So?"

"It looks like snot. My mother makes hers fresh."

"Then pretend it's fresh. Make it be what you want it to be. Even if it isn't. It doesn't really matter."

Jennifer looked at Delia with confusion and alarm. Then she leaned over and began cutting Brandy's meat into small, neat squares. When she tried to feed her, Brandy pushed her hand away.

"I'm so sure," Brandy said.

As they returned to the hotel room, Jennifer grabbed Delia's wrist. "I think we should call Mom. She'll be worried."

Delia suddenly felt as if Jennifer were the adult and she the child. "I called her at the restaurant. You know. When I used the rest room. There were phones in that little hallway. She was worried. It was good I called! She said any time we come home tomorrow is fine."

She hoped there wasn't a special place in hell for adults who lied to children. She tried to imagine the fear Toni must be going through, but she couldn't. Maybe her sister wouldn't know how to react. She'd never lost anyone she loved. Three months ago, at the age of thirty-one, Delia had given birth to a baby boy, but the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around the child's neck. Her boy was born pale and quiet and dead. She'd held him for several hours before the nurses took him away; his skin was white and flaky, as if it would crumble in her fingers if she pressed too hard. She hadn't been able to eat since.

***

When she woke the next morning, she still wasn't ready to return the children. She wanted to show Jennifer and Brandy her home in Starship, a tiny town outside Atlanta. Interstate 40 had taken them to I-75. If they got back on the highway they would reach Delia's home in less than two hours. She held something that was now hers, and she wasn't sure when she would give it back. Maybe never. Maybe she would drive and drive, eating in greasy diners and staying in cheap motels, always on the run. This idea of going from one place to the next offered a strange and appealing structure for Delia. She was in control of her day for the first time in months.

"We're close to my home," Delia informed the girls. "I want both of you to see it. Then we'll turn around. Your mother said it's fine, as long as I have you back this evening."

"You're lying," Jennifer said. "You're not very good at it."

The interstate slowly became more congested. Driving into Atlanta in the summer was like jumping into a pile of burning leaves. It was nine o'clock in the morning, and the Malibu's seats already smelled like melting vinyl. Sweat trickled down Delia's neck, even with the air conditioner turned full blast. The overwhelming humidity made her feel as if she were under water.

A semi drove next to her, wheels screeching, but the noise drifted away. Delia noticed other sounds - the occasional, demanding horn, the steady pulse of a low-riding car's bass stereo-dissolving into silence. She heard Jennifer's voice only when her niece leaned forward, poking her mouth next to Delia's ear.

"Did you see that sign?"

"No."

"Take the next exit. There's an aquarium, and I want to go."

"I don't think that's a good idea, honey. We're so close to home now."

"No. We're not! We might be close to your home, but that's not our home." Jennifer screamed, but she lowered her voice when Brandy curled into a small, fetal ball. Her skin was haggard and grey, red hair dangling around a scared, puffy face.

"Brandy? What's wrong?"

Brandy didn't answer. Jennifer placed Brandy's head on her lap; she rocked her sister gently, the way a mother would rock an infant. In a calmer voice, Jennifer said, "We had to play golf yesterday. That was so stupid and boring. You keep driving and driving. We don't know where we are. I want to go to the aquarium now."

Delia couldn't turn around any more than she could have wished breath into her child's body. She wondered how close her actions came to abuse. Was she scarring the girls for life? Would they require years of therapy with an expensive psychiatrist? What if Jennifer wrote a book about Delia when she grew up, Disturbed Delia Disrupts Childhood Development? "OK. We'll stop. But only for an hour."

Aqua World was located between Calhoun and Marietta, off a dusty side road with many potholes. Brown paint peeled and cracked like a false grin on the building's front. A grey walkway, decorated with withered flowers, led to the entrance. Once, years ago, the landscape might have been inviting. Now the earth clotted in huge, rocky lumps; the brown and yellow leaves from dead plants sagged toward the ground like outstretched arms.

Brandy opened the door and sprinted to the side of the parking lot. Then came the vomiting, the sound of a medieval beast being slain. How could a six-year-old produce such loud noises? Delia ran to her. "Honey. What is it?"

Brandy turned a pale face toward Delia. A yellow line of spittle hung from her upper lip. "Gravy," she said. Then her back rounded, and she again vomited on top of the dead plants.

Jennifer marched past Delia and produced torn Kleenex from the pockets of her jeans. Her voice was harsh. "Go back to the car. I'll look after her."

Delia took a step toward the girls, but stopped and walked back toward the station wagon.

"Aunt Delia?" Jennifer called.

Delia cocked her head to the left so Jennifer would know she'd heard her.

"We're not having fun."

Delia opened her purse and touched the bag of kaolin. She felt terrible for Brandy; she knew what it was like when your body turned against you. Mornings were the worst. On a good day she could swallow a cup of coffee without gagging, but most mornings her throat was filled with mucus, and it constricted when she tried to eat. Sometimes she vomited her food, but usually it didn't even reach her stomach. Her throat closed when she tried to swallow, and she'd involuntarily spit out whatever she was eating. She imagined she had anorexia and harbored nightmares about wasting away à la Karen Carpenter. The doctor told her she suffered from anxiety, a symptom related to prolonged grief. He assured her it was normal to grieve for long periods. He said that after Prince Albert lost his battle with tuberculosis Queen Victoria went into an extended state of mourning, alienating herself from the outside world. He prescribed Delia oxazepam, which treated both anxiety and depression. The pills only put her to sleep; she still stared at food like an enemy.

She first heard about kaolin on a local news special. Apparently, dirt eating was a Southern phenomenon. Kaolin was rich in minerals, and some women ate it during pregnancy. Delia immediately went to her local health-food store, but they were sold out of the clay. The only form of kaolin the store had in stock was a facial masque. "Yes," Delia had asked the salesgirl, "but can I eat it?"

The dirt helped her eat in a way oxazepam didn't, and she felt much calmer. She considered going back to her doctor, wagging the bag of kaolin in his face, and hissing, "Prescribe this. Maybe Queen Victoria would have liked this."

Jennifer was tugging Delia's arm. "Brandy's feeling better. I...we still want to go inside."

Aqua World was one huge room, which snaked into myriad passageways and corridors. It took a few minutes for Delia's eyes to adjust to the darkness. A moist, spoiled smell permeated the air. Brandy cupped her hands over her mouth, and Delia thought her niece was going to vomit in front of the turtle exhibit.

"Maybe we should go back outside," said Delia.

Brandy took a deep breath and held it for several seconds before exhaling. She shook her head at Delia and continued farther into the aquarium. When they passed the turtles, Delia noticed the animals' skin was more grey than green; the color reminded her of the uncultivated ground outside. One of the turtles withdrew its head inside its shell. Delia completely understood.

"What's that?" Brandy asked.

At first the glass tank looked opaque. But then Delia realized most of the glass had turned brown because it hadn't been cleaned in years, perhaps decades. She pointed at the nameplate. "It's a starfish."

"Why is it shaped like a zucchini?" Jennifer stepped closer to the cage until her nose almost touched the filthy glass. "I think it's dead." Then she walked away from Delia and Brandy. Her back shook, and her shoulders rose so they were close to her ears.

Jennifer's sobs resounded in Delia's head. She noticed other sounds: clunky sputterings escaping from the aquarium's generators; soft tapping as Brandy, not looking at Jennifer, dragged her shoes across the floor.

Staring at Jennifer, Delia felt the day's illusions fade. One of her nieces was sick, the other hunched over, crying alone, far from home. She had accomplished nothing. She wanted to excuse herself, find the rest room, and stuff her mouth with kaolin. Instead she placed a hand on Jennifer's shoulder. An embarrassed shock coursed through Delia when she touched her niece.

Delia guided Jennifer around a corner, and they came upon a special exhibit. JELLIES, the sign above the tank read, even though there was only one jellyfish inside. The tank's water was as clear as a fresh stream, and the polished glass reflected small, silvery rays against the dark walls. The jelly was bell-shaped, about three feet in diameter. It glowed a bright orange, a commanding, mesmerizing presence. Its lacy pink tentacles, translucent and vulnerable, stretched at least twenty feet inside the tank, like the texture of a lung. It drifted before her, silent and directionless, but Delia thought there was a quiet music to the jelly's movement. She closed her eyes and listened.

Besides eating, structuring her day was the most difficult part of the last few months. The baby's father, a balding, middle-aged man with a shiny forehead, worked as a piano tuner in Atlanta. Delia's romance with him had been brief, unexciting; she hadn't even told him she was pregnant. She lived alone, and every morning Delia lay in bed for hours because she had no idea what to do once her feet landed on the wooden floor. Each day she ate what she could, showered, and dressed. Then the hours from daylight to nighttime passed slowly, like a bandage unraveling. Toni wanted Delia to stay with her, but spending each day with her organized, collected sister was less appealing than sitting alone in her house. Now Delia thought that more than anything, grief was the absence of any structure, a fragile time where you crumbled if there was no support.

Delia opened her eyes. Jennifer was still crying. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"You're not the only person in the world who's lost someone. You're not special."

She spoke with such anger and confidence that Delia couldn't look at her. The orange jelly filled the room, the world; it was the only object she could focus on. "I have to use the bathroom. Jennifer, wait here with Brandy."

The empty rest room smelled like an outhouse toilet. She went into the nearest stall, closed the door, and removed the plastic bag of kaolin from her purse. Her fingers shook when she placed the first chunk in her mouth. It dissolved on her tongue and left a doughy, sickly aftertaste, much like brewer's yeast. Calmness settled over her.

"What are you doing?" Jennifer held the stall's door open.

Delia wondered if white powder covered her mouth. "I told you to wait outside."

"Yeah. Well. Brandy's outside." Jennifer paused. "Why are you eating this?"

"I don't know. Because it makes me feel good, I guess. Look, we shouldn't leave Brandy alone."

"She's fine." Jennifer entered the stall, placed a hand inside the bag, and, before Delia could stop her, popped a large chunk of dirt in her mouth. For a moment it was so quiet Delia heard the sink dripping. Then Jennifer said, "Play-Doh. Only crumbly and not as salty."

Jennifer grabbed Delia's hand, interlacing their fingers. Delia saw a faint glistening under Jennifer's eyes where her tears were drying. "I had a friend who died. Three weeks ago. Well, not a friend. I didn't even like her. Mom made me play with her because her mom and my mom are friends. We were in a tree house. I wasn't paying attention to her. I never did. She lost her balance and fell. Now I can't stop thinking about her."

Delia said, "I'm sorry," because she wasn't sure what else to say.

"I should have taken better care of her."

Delia twisted the bag so the dirt wouldn't spill. She knelt in front of her niece. The space was so close she could smell the kaolin, a faint, not unpleasant odor, on Jennifer's breath. She opened her arms.

Jennifer walked into Delia, but she didn't embrace her aunt. Jennifer kissed Delia softly on the lips.

Delia was tired. She wanted to be back in her own house, where the hours were empty and limitless, but they were hers.

Brandy was waiting for them beside the jelly's tank, the color in her face somewhat restored. Jennifer grabbed her sister's hand and held it protectively.

"Wait for me outside," she instructed the girls. "I'll only be a minute."

Now the jellyfish looked like a hot orange sun to Delia, something whose beauty she wanted to absorb forever. Next to the jelly's tank was a small ladder, used for feeding. She climbed the ladder and placed the bag of kaolin carefully on the water's surface.

The bag floated in small circles on top of the water, as slow and patient as the jellyfish. Delia descended the ladder and waited to see if some of the dirt would spill into the tank, but none did. Not this afternoon but tonight or tomorrow she would want the kaolin back. But right now she was content to watch it drift on the water's surface, a small wreck trying not to sink and dissolve.