* * *
My parents still live in the same house in Towson where I grew up. The Saturday traffic’s light, so I make it there in under an hour. Turning onto their street puts a stone in the pit of my stomach, and I wish Mom and I had decided to get together elsewhere. Even shopping, which I hate, would be preferable to the onslaught of images rushing in: four young girls traipsing up and down the streets, walking to each other’s houses under a bright summer sky, glee trailing behind us. Giggles, whispers, gruesome stories rolling off our tongues. I should’ve canceled today altogether.
But I parallel-park in front of the house, shove the unease—and the memories—down deep, and don an untroubled mask. My mom hugs me and doesn’t hold on too long, something she does when she knows there’s a problem, so my subterfuge works. I kick off my shoes, having nearly six inches on her in my bare feet as it is.
She’s in palazzo pants and a flowy shirt, accentuating her body’s slight roundness, a softness she didn’t have when I was a child, but her arms and her heart are as strong as ever. The overhead light gives her skin a warm glow, and while she’s over sixty, her hair threaded with gray, only a few wrinkles kiss the corners of her eyes and faintly bracket her mouth. Genetic luck, she says of her unlined forehead. I’m not quite as lucky, but I’m doing okay.
In the dining room she has pasta salad, bread drizzled with olive oil and herbs, and a tray of melon and prosciutto set out on the table along with a bottle of sparkling water. As I’m sitting, she’s already dishing out food.
“The dressing’s a new recipe. Your dad loves it, so hopefully you will too, and if not, pretend for my sake.”
I wait for her to finish filling her plate before I take a bite, tasting garlic, rosemary, and pepper. Of course it’s delicious.
“Long week?” she asks. “Good one, I hope?”
I nod and spear pasta with my fork. She doesn’t request anything more. Patient confidentiality notwithstanding, we drew that line in the sand a long time ago. “But I’m proud of you, of what you do,” she told me then. “Don’t forget that.”
“So where’s Dad today?”
“He’s playing golf.”
I almost drop my fork. “Golf?” When I was a kid, he called it the most boring invention ever.
“Oh believe me, I teased him about it.”
We’re clearing the table when I say, “Do you remember Becca? Becca Thomas, who lived on Barron Drive with her mom?” As soon as the words are out, I want to pluck them from the air. It makes perfect sense to ask, but still. I’m a glutton for punishment.
She pauses, holding a plate and blinking, then gives a little shake of her head as she turns to the dishwasher. “Yes, I remember her. Why?”
“I have a patient with a similar history and thought, I don’t know, maybe there’s something I can refer to for help. Or something.” I’m talking too fast and know it. “My memories are a little vague. There’s a lot I can’t remember at all.”
“Good,” she says, and her vehemence surprises me. She rinses another plate, then fixes me with a frown. “You were young, and her … it was hard on you.”
“What do you remember?”
She shuts the dishwasher with a thud, and I follow her into the living room. The furniture has changed since I was kid—gone are the floral prints, swag curtains, and overstuffed sofa—but the layout is exactly the same.
“Do we really need to talk about this?” she asks.
I want to say no and change the subject, but I say, “Please.”
“I was—we were—shocked,” she says, sitting on one end of the sofa. I take the other, nudging a striped throw pillow out of the way.
“And?”
Her lips pinch tight. “We didn’t know about her mother. Becca seemed like a normal happy kid, like you and the rest of your friends. If we’d known how bad things were, we never would’ve let you spend the night there. Never.” She practically spits the word. “Nothing ever happened when you were there, did it?”
I blink, and in the brief darkness see Becca spitting into an open bottle of wine.
“No,” I say. “Her mom stayed out of our way.” I tuck the pillow in my lap and wrap my arms around it.
“We did everything we could for you. You know that, right? Do you remember Dr. Sakalauskas?”
“Yes,” I say, remembering a kind, calm woman with a slight Eastern European accent. I remember knowing I couldn’t tell her what happened, so I pretended to know nothing. I also remember months with a tutor instead of school, my parents trying extra hard to act normal and me doing the same until eventually things … settled. I learned how to hide the guilt, shame, and distress. By the time I went back to school, I appeared to be myself again. At least on the outside.
None of which matters now.
Mom shifts on the sofa. “Did I tell you I bought a new—”
“Her mom’s out of prison,” I say, my arms tightening around the pillow.
She stares down at her hands, gives a small shake of her shoulders. “Okay,” she says, rising to her feet, cheeks flushed. Upset, yes, but not surprised. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It isn’t healthy.”
“You already knew, didn’t you? Mom, I—”
“No. Find some other way to help your patient. I’m sure you can. What happened was a long time ago. Best to leave it in the past.”
I wish I could.
“Okay,” I say, raising both hands. “But before I forget, can I look though the old photo albums?”
Her eyes pinch at the inside corners, her lips thin, and I swear she’s going to say no, but she waves toward the stairs. “They’re up in the middle bedroom.”
She doesn’t come with me.
My old bedroom is now a craft space slash reading nook slash home office. Inside the closet, the albums are side by side on the top shelf. All are labeled on their spines, so 1990/1991 is easy to find—Mom is nothing if not organized.
The photographs are tucked into plastic sleeves, three to a page with a paper margin filled with notes in my mom’s delicate handwriting. SO MUCH SUN! Me in a tank top, my shoulders vivid red. SOMEONE IS ANGRY! Me again, sulking in a chair, not looking at the camera. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Dad and I at the dinner table, a huge cake in the center.
One picture shows Becca from the back, her hair unmistakable, and another’s too filmy to see her face. My heart sinks as I turn the pages. I’m more than halfway through when I find what I’m looking for.
We’re on my front lawn. Shorts and T-shirts. Arms linked. Chins up. Wide, happy smiles. My hair in a braid looped over my shoulder, the tail resting near my waist; hers is hanging free. This is the Becca I remember the fiercest. From the lighting, it must have been early evening. I slip the photo from its protective sleeve. More of my mom’s writing on the back: JUNE 1991. This picture was taken not long before our big fight.
Footsteps approach. From the doorway, Mom says, “I forgot how long your hair was.”
“Too long. She loved to braid it. And unbraid it, too.” Savagely, I blink away tears. “You never have friends like you do when you’re a kid,” I say, once I’m sure my voice won’t quaver. “I think I read something like that in a Stephen King book.”