Heavy raindrops plopped onto her cheek as Yael stepped out from under the awning with a steaming mocha in between her hands. A colorful mosaic of umbrellas swarmed on the sidewalk, bumping and pushing into her without a care. The traffic light changed while an impatient steel knot of gridlock traffic was still stuck in the middle of the intersection. Horns blared. Someone shouted something lewd. She could hardly register it, though. Her mind was numb.

She wished for something stronger than coffee. With its tall buildings glinting in the early summer rain, New York City felt like a completely different place. She had tried to imagine her return a hundred-thousand times by now, but no matter how many times she'd replay the loop and change the details, the outcome was always the same. As she hailed a cab and mumbled directions to the driver, she thought back to her imaginative recaps. None of them came close to what brought her back now.

Memories plagued her, and no matter how hard she tried to avoid looking at it, her eyes kept drifting back toward the interrupting space in the skyline. She shook her head to ward off the images that came unbidden of people drifting aimlessly, numb and lifeless, through ash-covered streets and the endless cries of sirens.

Now here she was, the exact place she'd wanted to escape, looking at the real reminder of why she left. Her phone buzzed from deep inside her purse, and Yael dug for it in the depths of Narnia betwixt stray tic-tacs and lipstick. She unlocked the screen and pulled up Wendy's name, firing off a text that she'd call her later.

Dropping the phone back into her bag, Yael leaned her head against the seat and repeated her mantra, "I am stronger than my addiction."

It'd been eight months since she finished rehab. The prospect of showing up unannounced at her grandmother's doorstep threatened her sobriety more than she cared to admit. She should have gone straight to a meeting from the airport. The last thing she wanted or needed was to risk another relapse. Just four months and she'd clear a milestone she'd strived for years. Yet here she was, risking her sobriety by coming back to the city.

The cabbie rolled to a stop in front of her grandmother's townhome on E 69th Street. He eyed her through the rearview as if she didn't belong in an affluent neighborhood. He wasn't wrong. The community reeked of old money. "Thanks," she offered as she slid out of the car with her bags onto unsteady feet. He whizzed off before she remembered to retrieve her lukewarm drink.

It was only June, but she rubbed the goosebumps on her arms to ward off the chill creeping up her spine. Raising her gaze, she studied the building.

Just as she remembered-opulent to the point of gaudy, in her opinion. Lingering on the sidewalk, Yael looked up and down the path, hoping a biker or a ferocious Karen would put her out of her misery. Anxiety loomed over her like a storm cloud. She didn't know how her grandmother would react to seeing her after all these years. She'd consider this endeavor a success if she wasn't immediately tossed out on the street like riff-raff. After a couple of cleansing breaths, her legs stopped shaking. Her fingers tightened on the suitcase until her hand throbbed. She swallowed the bile threatening to rise and pressed the doorbell. The booming echo mirrored her heartbeat.

The front door opened to reveal an older woman with a long, gray, and black braid hanging down her back. This must be the hospice nurse.

"You must be Yael. You look just like the pictures of Ms Miriam as a young woman. I'm Dorota, it's nice to meet you." She ushered Yael inside and took her luggage, rolling it into place next to the stairs.

"Thanks." She shook the nurse's hand. "How is she?"

"She's certainly been better, I can tell you that. She lit up like a Christmas tree at the last visit. It's spread through the body now, even after three rounds of chemo and radiation. There's nothing left to do but keep her comfortable and make sure she's not in pain. Try not to show it when you see her. She won't be what you remember her as." Her head tilted. "She knows you're coming and she's happy to see you. I think having you here will be good for her."

"Right. Thanks." Hearing the extent of Miriam's illness a second time didn't make it any less devastating.

"Can I offer you some Matzo ball soup? I made it just this morning. It's the only thing Miriam is able to hold down these days." Dorota's pale brown eyes roamed over Yael. "You're a skinny little thing, I suppose that's the fad in L.A. these days, isn't it? Everyone's no-glutton this, no happiness that. No wonder all the models look so dire. Let me get you some."

Yael shook her head. "I ate before I got here," she lied. She wasn't convinced she could hold down food right now.

Dorota nodded absentmindedly and changed gears. "When was the last time you were in the city?"

"Almost a decade." She offered little else.

"That's right." Understanding dawned in her expression. "I read about your parents. Miriam mentions them sometimes."

Yael could see it in her eyes. First, reluctance. Then her curiosity got the best of her. It was always the same. Everyone slowed down to rubberneck a tragedy, especially one of her scale. "They were there that morning, weren't they?"

Yael lowered her head. She'd stopped to see her parents before she headed out for her class. She'd been fretting about a test that afternoon and wanted to hurry along with breakfast to get some last-minute studying in. As she stopped at the coffee cart, a plane screeched overhead and slammed into the building. She stood vigil at the WTC for two days, swaying on her feet but refusing to leave. Covered in soot and ash, nursing a broken arm, she refused to leave until she saw her parents. She had survived the wait by clinging to the misguided hope of a reunion that never came.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dredge up the past. I can only imagine how painful that is for you," Dorota murmured, bringing her back to the present.

Yael nodded stiffly. "I was supposed to meet them for breakfast." Silence reigned supreme. "I felt the impact. I thought the whole world was shaking." Her reluctant smile wavered. "When I made it home, Miriam and I," she huffed out a watery laugh. She would not cry. She wouldn't. "Well, our last words weren't very pleasant."

Dorota laid a gentle hand on her arm. "She regrets how she treated you."

She bit back an argument ready to roll off her tongue. No matter how much she wished for it, she knew the likelihood of reconciliation with her grandmother was slim to none.

Instead, Yael said, "The Miriam I remember was renowned for being ornery, so I'm not quite sure what to expect." Yael adjusted her purse on her shoulder. "Where is she?"

"Third door to the right, in the dining room. We've had to set up her room there since stairs are no longer an option for her." The nurse padded off towards the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "I'll be tidying up if you need me."

Hesitation faded, replaced by cold determination. She was here for a reason, so she might as well get on with it. The sooner she could get this talk over with, the better. Even if she was riddled with bone cancer, the thought of her grandmother made her anxiety take flight in situations of high stress.

Yael entered the room and took a moment to adjust to the sight before her, stark reality gripping her heart. Gone was the antique table from the turn of the century France and in the muted light of a Tiffany chandelier. Now there was only a handful of machines and a hospital bed. Her grandmother, propped into a half-sitting position, looked like a vampire right out of The Strain.

Miriam Weiss Malkah was old New York society. She was always impeccably dressed without ever looking gaudy. A formidable force in the business world and a picture of high elegance, Miriam tried to mold Yael into the same with expensive schools and private tutors. A slight cloud of expensive perfume always surrounded the woman she remembered.

The stranger in the bed couldn't be Miriam Malkah. Where her grandmother was the picture of poise and health, this woman was tiny and frail, as white as the sheets she lay in. Bruises expanded over her skin. Translucent veins snaked dark lines up and down her arms. Wires lay like vines threatening to encase her. Instead of Chanel No 5, only the shroud of death and antiseptic cloaked her.

As Yael crept towards the bed, a flicker crossed Miriam's face. The withered woman studied her through critical eyes, and her mouth tipped up marginally. Then, she took a struggling breath and spoke in a wispy voice, "The black sheep returns."

Yael stifled a nervous laugh. While cancer may have sucked the life out of her, it did nothing to corner her spirit.

"I kind of expected a party in my honor, black sheep or not." She stepped closer, knowing her sarcasm would only serve to piss her grandmother off, but unable to reel it in. The once-formidable woman's vulnerability frightened her, and she had to lock her wobbly knees in place. Besides, what could a person say to account for an absence that spanned a decade? "I came as soon as I heard. Why didn't you call me?"

"Same reason you never reached out, I suppose. We're all too proud, too stubborn. I assumed you would come home after a few months with your tail tucked between your legs, and somehow years flew out the window. How could you?" she gasped.

The woman's lips pressed together. Yael stifled the retort hot on her tongue. "We should focus on your health now, instead of the past. Arguing about it won't do either of us any good right now."

Miriam chuckled a faint rustling sound that ended in a nasty cough. She fumbled around for the morphine button and pressed it deeply. "Did you learn that hippie mumbo jumbo in rehab?"

She stifled. "How did you...?" Of course, Miriam had been keeping a check on her. She was surprised at herself for not expecting it. "Of course you'd know all about that. Why call when you can have your little minions scuttle around in the dark, prying into my personal life," Yael muttered.

"You are the sole heir to Malkah Enterprises." A rattle escaped her. "Did you really think I wouldn't keep tabs on my granddaughter?"

Embarrassment crept into Yael's cheeks. Her fingers circled the semicolon tattoo on her inner wrist. She'd never tried to hide her actions because Los Angeles had felt so far away. Once in a while, paparazzi would find her and snap a couple of shots of the young heiress. In LA, no one knew who she was. No one cared. She preferred it that way. None of her drug use or rehab stints had ever made it into a gossip rag, and even after being snapped at a party with an A list celebrity, she'd only been identified as an "unidentified date." Her past was humiliating enough, as were the things she'd done to feed her addiction. The thought of Miriam with a file documenting her sordid past had her gritting her teeth. That was the past, though. That wasn't who she was anymore, and Yael wanted Miriam to acknowledge the person who she'd finally become. The woman she was now, who had finally fought her demons and had come out on the other side. The stranger coughed and continued, "You're all that's left of the Malkah's." She drew in a shaky breath. "Now that you're here, you can take your rightful place as head of the company. Put my... put my mind at ease."

Sleep overtook her before she had a chance to reply. Her eyes watched the slight rise and fall of her chest.

Collapsing into the chair by the bed, Yael watched her sleep as she tried to take stock of what just happened. Miriam hadn't welcomed her with open arms, but she also hadn't demanded her to leave and never darken her doorstep again. Instead, she left her with a company. After she left New York, she figured Miriam would sell.

"She's had a bad week."

Yael yelped. She'd forgotten about the nurse and hadn't heard her sneaking up. "It's been a struggle trying to keep her comfortable. The morphine adles her mind, and she has trouble remembering what's happening or even where she is. None of her old friends visit anymore, so she's been lonely. Despite her doctor's recommendation, she refuses to stay in the hospital, and I'm her only company besides a couple colleagues."

Dorota's last statement caused Yael's cheeks to flare with shame. It killed her to think of Miriam being alone. Choking down the terror clawing her throat, Yael asked, "How long does she have?"

"Two to three months at best."

"So soon," Yael murmured, wishing Miriam had tried to contact her. She knew her grandmother was stubborn. It was hard to ask anyone for help, especially if you didn't know the answer.

Dorota laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I don't have to tell you how she is, maybe she'll surprise us all and stay with us a year." Dorota pulled out a crisp, white envelope from her pocket and offered it to Yael. "Here are the keys to your parent's place. I figured you wouldn't want to stay here or at a hotel, so I had someone stocked it."

"Thank you. I hope it didn't take you away from your duties."

"Hospice care is as much about the family as it is about the patient. It really was no bother, I had to stop at the market for Miriam and me anyway."

"Well, thank you."

Yael opened the package and shook out the keys. She hadn't considered where she'd stay in her rush to leave L.A. but figured if she was hell-bent on facing her ghosts, her childhood home was the perfect place to start. She reached into the envelope again and extracted a stack of papers.

"What's this?"

"Your grandmother asked for you to read those and deliver them to the Malkah office. Last quarter's financial reports she had to sign, or something. It's all a bit over my head. The sooner you re-familiarize yourself, the better. Her words."

Yael blinked, not that surprised at what she was hearing. Miriam always played the puppet master, pulling strings to ensure those around her fell in line, all the while believing it was their decision in the first place. Not Yael. Not this time.

"I'm not here for the company." Confusion muddled Dorota's features. "Never mind, I'll talk to her about it tomorrow. I will drop the papers off, then drop by after. I'll call you if my plans change. Thank you for everything."

An hour later, pulling her suitcase behind her, Yael trekked through the familiar neighborhood, using the time to prepare for the next shock to her system. She passed under a dark green awning, where a doorman greeted her and entered the virtually unchanged lobby of the building she once called home.

God, what she'd give for a joint right now. Just something to take the edge off.

She shuffled to the elevator, weighed down by exhaustion and dread, then put in the key, allowing her access to the top floor. Yael rolled her head on her shoulders and shoved aside the relentless, gnawing hunger. As much as her body was telling her otherwise, drugs would not save her from the pain she was about to encounter.

After a short ascent through seven floors, the doors opened into a marbled foyer, and memories swept over her in a crashing wave. Her mom always ensured a vase of fresh flowers stood on the now empty table by the wall, purchasing them from the same vendor down the street twice a week. Yael recalled standing there in her cap and gown on graduation day, full of hope, or picking up her final box when she moved to an apartment closer to NYU. She hadn't even been at school two weeks before she dropped out.

Like always, thinking about her parents cut deep, but this time as the wounds opened, it felt cathartic. For so long, she convinced herself that reminiscing did more damage than good. This most recent rehab trip had allowed her to finally understand how satisfying it was to remember and relive a happy and safe childhood. She loved having them with her again, alive in her memories.

Of course, it didn't mean confronting the past would be easy.

She knew her old home would be different and had prepared for the shock. An impractical part of her half-expected the elevator doors to open and her surroundings to look precisely the same. Only, no fragments of her life remained. Leaning against one of the marble columns separating the foyer from the living room, Yael took a minute to steady herself and studied the space with forced detachment.

The sprawling penthouse boasted an open floor plan that allowed plenty of natural light to flood in. A musty, mothball smell, proof smarted her nose, evidence that it had been still and unlived in for so long. Emptiness filled the shadowy corners. Once she felt capable of exploring, she ventured in, followed by ghosts of the past.

In the hall, her mom called for her to hurry up or they'd be late for dinner. She watched her dad yelling at the Yankees game on T.V., red-faced and indignant. The sights and sounds were so vivid as if she could reach out and touch them.

Simple, masculine pieces had replaced the furniture she helped pick, and the walls were bare and uninviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows leading to the large terrace let in the warm sun. Still, instead of feeling the heat, Yael shivered uncontrollably.

The large, gleaming kitchen called to her, easing the agony. Over the past year, baking had become her outlet. Following recipes and experimenting with her own kept her thoughts centered. Her fingers itched to get lost in the rhythm of measuring and stirring.

Creeping deeper into the living room, she caught a whiff of perfume, the same floral scent her mother ordered special from Paris. Her shaking hand held onto the wall for support, and grief erupted in her chest, an empty burn that stole her breath.

"M-mom?" she gasped, feeling like an idiot, but desperate for a reply.

Silence reigned supreme.

Instead of using the large master bedroom, she chose her old one with its commanding views and luxury bathroom. Nothing remained the same here either, and it hurt the worst.

This had been her sanctuary, where she dreamed and planned and cried. Her legs trembled, and finally, a tear snaked down her cheek. Gone was the Mountain Dew yellow walls and the posters of her beloved city—the architecture, the bridges, the Broadway shows she'd enjoyed. The bed was cold, utilitarian, not the dark cherry sleigh she'd slept in since she ditched the bunk bed in seventh grade.

She didn't know this place.

Yet, as she pawed at her cheeks to dry them, she noticed the deep gouge in the wooden floor where she dropped a massive snow globe her grandfather had bought at Saks. A blossom of joy chased away some of the iciness. Inspired, she strode over to the closet. Yes, it still wobbled and stuck when opened halfway. Those two superficial imperfections lessened Yael's agony. It wasn't much, just enough to ground her to the realization that her existence hadn't been wiped clean from the space.