I’M LATE TO MY SISTER’S SUICIDE AGAIN. I’ve gotten to the facility at the tail end of visiting hours, which means a shift change for the caregivers, which is why I’ve been standing out here for ten minutes waiting for someone to let me in. I ring the doorbell a third time.

I adjust the shoulder strap on my purse, my right hand cramping from gripping the other bag. I set that one, very carefully, on the broad edge of a planter. There’s a bench, but between the plane and the rental car my back is stiff from sitting. Besides, I’m too keyed up.

A woman in scrubs appears on the other side of the glass door. I pull on my facemask.

“You’re Laura’s sister, right?” she says as she lets me in. “She’ll be happy to see you. She’s been waiting for you.”

“My flight was delayed,” I say. I probably sound defensive. She waves a thermometer at my forehead and checks me in on the visitor log. Above her own mask her eyes crinkle, suggesting a smile.

“I’ll show you to Laura’s room,” she says.

“It’s okay, I know the way,” I say. She gives me another crinkle and heads toward the lounge, her clogs squeaking against the linoleum.

Other residents, slumped in wheelchairs or sunk into couches, watch Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison on the huge glowing screen above the fireplace in the lounge. The fireplace is never lit, but the television is always on. CNN and talk shows until noon, then a repeating

…