“Same as the others,” I say with a shrug.
He nods. Instead of getting in the car, he walks to the edge of the lot, surveying the lawn and the brick buildings on the other side. “I bet Mom spent every afternoon reading on this field.”
It takes me a moment to process his words. “Wait, what?” I ask, following his eyeline. He’s so focused, like he’s actually envisioning Mom here right now. But all I see is dry grass under barren trees.
Lewis gestures at the campus buildings around us. “She went here for two years before she had to transfer to take care of Grandma.”
I blink. I knew Mom transferred schools when she had to move back in with her parents. Grandpa couldn’t leave his job, not when his insurance was paying for Grandma’s medications. But it meant Mom had to be home to help with the caretaking. It took her two extra years to finish school while she drove her mother to doctor’s appointments, cooked for her parents, managed medication schedules—all while she fought the disease she’d one day inherit.
I guess I never thought about where Mom had gone to school before Grandma’s diagnosis. Never considered what kind of life she was embarking on before her entire world was upended. I’m surprised Lewis has, though. It makes me wonder if he’s closer to our mom than I’d assumed. He’s paid attention to her in ways I wouldn’t have guessed given his careless demeanor. This new information has me questioning if there are other pieces of him I’ve overlooked.
“I never knew that,” I say, gazing out at the campus across the field. They’re no longer brick buildings and libraries and dorms and labs I don’t remember the names of. No longer a blurry addition to a string of nearly identical schools.
This is part of my mom’s history. She was here. She made memories here, began her studies here.
“She loved this place,” Lewis says softly. It’s a tone I hardly recognize from him. Fragile, almost. “I think she was always sad she couldn’t come back, but—you know . . .” He trails off, not needing to finish the sentence. Of course I know.
We stand together a moment longer. I don’t know why this campus has Lewis pensive. We still haven’t talked about her, about what our family is facing—not quite. But this shared meditation, this quiet stillness is the closest we’ve come.
“Ready to head to the hotel?” Lewis asks abruptly.
“Actually, could we walk around some more?” I surprise myself with the question. But I’m not ready to leave yet. Not when I feel like I’ve just uncovered something to treasure.
Lewis’s face lights up. “Of course.”
We retrace the route I walked with the tour group. This time, though, I study everything.
This school isn’t part of my future. It’s better. It’s part of her past.
While we walk, I don’t just immerse myself in the scenery, the buildings, the trees, the endless gray of the clouds over campus. I imagine myself describing them. The words I’ll pull when painting the portraits my mom no longer remembers. Arboreal. Caesious. Austere. The details, from the incongruous architectural cross-section to the gentle curvature of the palatial library’s outer wall. I imagine myself in my house, the fireplace warming the front room while my mom listens. I’ll say every word I collect on this campus, but really I’ll only say one.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
Juniper
I WAKE UP to my phone vibrating on the nightstand in our cramped Connecticut hotel room. It’s not the half-conscious waking of confused dreams or sunlight through bedroom windows, either. The rattling noise throws my eyes open, my nerves rushing with instantaneous ugly energy. I’m a light sleeper, which Matt jokes is the least surprising thing about me. Honestly, I know what he means. Even unconsciously, I never want to miss a moment. It’s why I leave my phone on vibrate even though just one text could pull me from sleep, not to mention a call like I’m getting now.
Grabbing my phone off the bedside table, I check the name displayed. Marisa.
I quickly take in the numbers over her name. It’s 2:34 a.m. My oldest younger sister is not in the habit of calling me past midnight, which means this must be important. Careful not to disturb Matt, who’s predictably sound asleep, I tiptoe to the bathroom, ease the door silently shut behind me, and pick up.
“Marisa?” I say, squinting in the bright light. “Are you okay?”
Music crackles through my phone’s speakers, distant and thudding. I hear my sister shouting something incoherent through the noise, trying to get the attention of someone named Michelle. Michelle, presumably, hollers something back. They sound far from the phone, their voices a thin accent above the melody.
She butt-dialed me. I would hang up, except what the hell is my sister doing out at 2:34 in the morning? There’s no way Mom and Dad know about this.
“Marisa,” I try again, louder this time. “What’s going on? Can you hear me?”
The rustling of fabric scratches the speakers. “Yeah,” she says. “I need you to pick me up.” Her voice is slurred, her consonants lost under extended vowels. Okay—so it’s not a butt-dial. “Steve’s . . . house’s driveway.” Words run together, caught in her heavy breathing.
“What?” I turn the volume up on my phone, hoping it’ll make her easier to understand. I’ve never heard my sister so drunk before, and it spills worry through me.
Marisa sighs into the phone. Except it’s not a sigh. Her breath heaves, and I realize she’s sobbing. Panic rushes through my chest. I clutch the phone to my ear, feeling electrified through my exhaustion.
“Steve’s party,” Marisa gets out. “Pick me up from Steve’s party.”
With horrible rising dread, I understand what’s happening. My sister wants to come home from a house party, where she’s drunk and overwhelmed and in tears. Not good. Really not good. I hurriedly comb my thoughts for memories of whoever this Steve is. Marisa and I go to the same school, but I hardly know everyone in the junior class. I dredge up the recollection of driving the two of them home from school last year. They were sophomores and partners on a Macbeth project for English. I wonder if he’s the mysterious boyfriend she’s been keeping a secret. Under the harsh light, I feel queasy.
“I’m not home, remember?” I explain patiently. “I’m in Connecticut. I can’t come pick you up right now.”
Marisa’s sobs come harder. “Jessie said boys only like me because I dress trashy,” she says breathily, and this time it’s less like she’s talking to me than like she’s talking to everybody and nobody and I’m there to hear her.