Remembering Raquel by Vivian Vande Velde Page B

was a dessert or a mannequin, you'd say, "Wow, she looks so real!"
    But you could tell the difference.
    Not that I could think of any reason why they'd have substituted a spun sugar mannequin for Raquel, except just to spare me having to look at her.
    That was stupid. I looked at her hands, folded quietly—and Raquel was never that still—and the hands were real. Not sugar, not even wax, or plaster or whatever they make mannequins out of.
    And then I started thinking: It's still not really her. It was someone else, someone who looked a lot like Raquel, but it wasn't her. It was some other girl who'd been in an accident. And because she looked so much—but not exactly—like Raquel, people had gotten confused. They had told Uncle Al it was Raquel, and he'd been so upset, he hadn't taken a close enough look. It was sort of like with the story about the emperor's new clothes—where the emperor is naked, but everybody is convinced the problem is with themselves, that they're the only ones who can't see, so they don't want to admit anything. It was the same here. Everybody was probably thinking,
Hey, that doesn't even look like Raquel,
but nobody wanted to say so for fear of being stupid. It was sad that this other girl was dead, but this wasn't Raquel, who was really ... who was really...
    Where
was
Raquel?
    Maybe,
I thought,
maybe she was in an accident, too, except that she wasn't killed.
She was probably, at this very moment, lying in a hospital, suffering from amnesia, which was why she hadn't spoken up, and I would be the one who would be able to break the good news to the family, and we'd all go, like, "Whoa! That was a close one!" And I felt hands on my shoulders and Amorette was whispering into my ear, "Marco. Marco."
    I realized I'd been leaning on the padded elbow rest, closer and closer to Raquel, my knees barely making contact with the kneeler. Because I'd been thinking of fairy tales, I figured I probably looked like I thought I was Prince Charming, like I thought I could kiss her awake. I
hope
I didn't look like that.
    Uncle Al was there, too, having come to rest his hand on my head. He gazed down at Raquel, dead in her coffin.
    "She wasn't a big fan of pink," I said.
    "No," he agreed. Then he said, "They didn't have peppermint-striped."
    That was how she'd painted her room: red and white stripes.
    Uncle Al looked like he was going to cry because the lining was the wrong color.
    "Well," I said, finally knowing what to say, "pink is like a melted peppermint."
    Uncle Al patted my head again. "That's the way I'll think about it," he said.
    "Yeah," I said.
    Amorette said to me, "How about we go outside for some fresh air."
    Which was uncommonly considerate of her. So I did.

Nona Falcone, Grandmother
    I've watched Alzheimer's steal my husband's memories, one by one, from most recent to oldest—so that at the nursing home he'll say, "Hello," as though I haven't been holding his hand for the last half hour. He'll give the smile that won my heart in high school and say, "Thank you for visiting me. Do I know you?"
    Oh, Raquel. Why did God bless him, and not me?

Hayley Evenski, Best Friend (Part 3)
    I know a lot of the people here from my years of tagging along at so many Falcone family functions. I call them aunt and uncle as though they're related to me, just as Raquel adopted my parents' siblings. So I've been watching Uncle Ray get two of the younger cousins in trouble by wiggling his ears and making them giggle. Each time their mother turns around, Uncle Ray switches to a solemn face and the nephews get scolded.
    Grandma Papadopulos can't stop crying, and periodically her daughters take her out—to the ladies' room, outside, I'm not sure. She comes back, seemingly composed, and then her eyes start leaking again.
    Will I lose this family as truly as I've lost Raquel?
    I feel numb.
    Meanwhile, I'm watching a girl who is having a terrible time.
    I saw her when she came in, and I took an immediate