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.”
“I’ve never understood why you read those.”
“Kids like scary things. I wouldn’t read one now if you paid me, but anyway,” I say, drawing out the word as much as I can, “it was your fault for letting me.”
Her brows arch. “Let you? The first time I caught you with one, you’d snuck it out of our bedroom.”
“What? No, Dad lent it to me.”
“No, he did not. He left it on our nightstand and you took it without asking. When he realized it was gone and you had it, he and I had a very tense discussion because I thought you were too young. You were only about ten, I think, maybe even nine. By then you’d read more than half of it, so he thought we should let you finish and if you got scared, so be it.”
I rub my forehead. I clearly remember my dad giving me Carrie and telling me I might like it. It was the first adult horror novel I’d ever read. I wouldn’t even have considered it if not for my dad. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
My fingers curl the photo, but I catch myself before it creases. “Can I keep this?”
She blinks twice. “Take whatever you want.”
“This is enough.” I flick the picture against my thumb. “We were so silly, weren’t we?”
The front door opens, and my dad calls out, “Barbara, I’m home!”
“We’re up here,” Mom says.
Dad thumps up the stairs. “Hey, bug.”
I wrinkle my nose at the nickname and hug him in return. He smells faintly of cigarettes, a habit he’s been trying to break for years.
“Did you have fun?” Mom says.
“Yeah, Dad, how was golf?”
“You two. It wasn’t that bad. I may have even had fun,” he says. “But the storm’s finally rolling in. They’re calling for thunder and lightning, maybe even some flash flooding in your area.”
“I should head out then,” I say, sliding the photo into my pocket. “Ninety-Seven is a bitch when it rains.”
“I’ll fix up a container of pasta salad for you to take home to Ryan,” Mom says. “I promise I’ll be quick.”
When I leave, with repeated admonitions from both of them to drive safely, the sky is gunmetal, air thick with the scent of the impending squall.
Becca always loved the rain.
I push the thought away and get in my car. Turn at the end of my parents’ street and pass the field, but instead of continuing straight, I make another turn. At the end of the street, I pull to the side with the engine running.
The house looks completely different. For one thing, it’s visible from the street now; the hedges are gone. In their place is a low border of hostas. No room for kids to hide. Without the heavy greenery, the stone appears lighter. Then, the porch was fairly small; now it spans the length of the facade, with a white railing and squared columns supporting the roof. Wicker lawn furniture with flowered cushions sit on either side of the front door. That’s been changed, too. Once solid wood, now it has an oval of etched glass in the center.
I close my eyes. Hear the susurration of our voices and footsteps breaking the silence. How many