Beatrice slid the zip up and down and then stood, walking the perimeter of the living room carrying the empty suitcase, which was nearly the size of her.

“Have you listened?”

He shook his head.

“Should we?”

Thomas clicked open the case. It looked old-fashioned and huge compared to cassette tape recorders or even eight-tracks. He picked up a box labeled “December 31st 1972.” I had no idea how to use the machine, but Thomas put the reel on and threaded the tape through a slot at the bottom, then drew the tape up the other side, spinning it onto an empty reel. He clicked the switch. Nothing happened.

“It’s not plugged in,” said Beatrice, marching past the couch, luggage in tow.

Thomas plugged it in and clicked the switch again. The reels began to turn. I looked at him sitting on the floor in front of the machine, his head down, waiting. I lay on the carpet and looked the other way, so I didn’t have to watch him hearing it. At first there was nothing, and then the crackling of the record button being pressed and some whispering. A child’s voice, very young, asking “Is it on? Is it?” My father cleared his throat, making it formal as he talked to the future.

“Hello. This is Martin Gallagher speaking from Ardmore, Pennsylvania, on the thirty-first of December 1972.” The sound of his voice in the living room reverberated against my ribs and stomach, the voice tinny and far away and more Irish than I remembered him sounding.

“It is a mild day for this time of year. Raining and sixty-two degrees. It is eleven thirty p.m., not long before we ring in 1973. I am here with my wife, Faye, and children Marie, Thomas, Libby, and Ellen. Each one of them is going to say hello, and we’ll start with the youngest, Ellen Gallagher.” He was shy and serious. There was a pause and a muffled sound as the microphone was passed to Ellen.

“Hello. I . . . My name is Ellen Gallagher. I’m three, and—” There was a pause. She must not have known what to do. “Happy New Year.” There was whispering behind her: “Tell them what you wish for.” She must have been holding the microphone to her mouth, because you could hear every breath. “I wish . . . I can’t remember.” There was another pause, and then the tape switched off. I would be next. Again, the sound of the recording button being switched on. I lay with my cheek on the carpet and listened.

“Hello. I’m Libby Gallagher. I’m six and a half. In the first grade. My teacher is Miss Collins. She’s very nice. You’d like her.”

Thomas snorted. My mom said I never shut up as a child.