stuck here, and the grass isn’t completely brown yet. I briefly wonder what the field looks like in summer. Verdant. Green with plants or grass.
“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