My stomach dips. The years peel away, and suddenly we’re in a little girl moment, competing to hold Margo’s hand, pair with her on a rubber raft, partner with her playing Trivial Pursuit—or, for that matter, competing for the red Lifesaver, the yellow horse on the carousel, or Mom’s lap. Anne was always more vocal and me more submissive, but she’s wrong now.

“I’m no closer to her than I am to you,” I inform her.

“You both left. You both sided with Mom—and, okay, I understand she’s your mother and she was starting all over again, but he’s your father!”

“Is he?” I ask without thinking, my own vulnerability that close to the surface.

Anne recoils. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Pushing my hands into my hair, I gather it at the crown, then let it fall in a way meant to convey nonchalance. “I mean, he always made me feel different, like I was doing everything wrong, like I didn’t belong here. It’s just me being upset.”

But she doesn’t blink. “So, you said that figuratively?”

Yes, of course, I did, I want to cry. But the words don’t come.

“Literally?” she whispers, seeming terrified. Not even the shards of late-day sun that spill gold across the parking lot can hide the fact that her face has lost color.

I’m guessing mine has, too. Bouncing this off Jack is one thing, sharing it with my sister is another. With her, it’s more real. In the silence, though, I realize it’s time. I also wonder if she hasn’t ever wondered about this herself.

She’s certainly wondering now. Dry now, her eyes are a window to somewhere else entirely. When she refocuses, her voice is tenuous. “Do you remember the hammock on the porch?”

I’m startled by the change of topic. “Our porch? Of course.”

“Remember how you and I would lie there together and listen to the gulls and the waves?”

“Of course.”

“Remember—” she starts, but something on the side catches her eye. She waves a hand to shoo it away. Bill. That’s all he gets, a wave, and I have to say that I’m glad. This is between Anne and me. “Remember the game we played,” she continues sotto voce, “like we were hiding there and no one knew?”

“I do.” We heard things we weren’t supposed to hear, like what early Christmas gifts Mom had bought or what Margo’s stomach cramps were about or … a memory returns, why Roberto Aiello was no longer around.

Distrust. The word pops into my mind. But who said it? When? Why?

I’m searching, when Anne says, “Remember when Mom was talking with Shelly Markham?”