“The cat was real, too,” I insisted. When I get into a hole, I start digging like mad.

“What cat?”

“Chester. My half brother killed him during my birthday party. I was four.”

In the next moment, a vacuum opened, sucked all the air out of the restaurant, and reduced everybody but Jolie to black-and-white still-shots shimmering at the periphery of my vision.

“You remember that?” Jolie asked, almost whispering.

I caught my breath. Pulled myself back out of the vortex. Our surroundings solidified, and the noise, returning suddenly, seemed so loud I wanted to clamp both hands over my ears.

“Yes,” I said, as surprised as Jolie was. I blinked a couple of times. Mom had bought one of those doll cakes for the party, the kind with a frosted skirt. I could see the wax 4 pressed into the front as clearly as the platter of spaghetti on the table between us. There had been presents, and even guests—kids from the neighborhood, all in faded sunsuits.

Jolie’s eyes were huge. “Oh. My. God.”

I started to cry. “I went looking for Chester, after the party. I’d saved him a piece of cake.” I paused, drew a tremulous breath. “I found him behind the storage shed in the backyard, Jolie. He’d been shot with one of the arrows from the archery set some idiot—probably my dad—gave Geoff for Christmas.”

Jolie handed me a red-and-white checked napkin so I could wipe my eyes. I stopped short of blowing my nose.

“I’m sorry, Moje,” she said. “That must have been beyond awful. But you’re remembering, and that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I felt things gathering around me, unseen things, dangerous things. They pressed in so hard, I could barely breathe. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Jolie said. She signaled for the check, turned down the standard dessert pitch from the waiter and paid up.

Five minutes later, we were back in the Pathfinder.

I rolled the window down, even though the AC was on. I couldn’t get enough air.

We went back to the apartment, and Sweetie didn’t even growl when we came in.

Jolie pressed me into a chair at the kitchen table and rummaged for wineglasses and a bottle of red. Poured us each a double dose. We hadn’t said a word all the way back from the restaurant, but now it was nitty-gritty time.

“What else do you remember?” Jolie asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“But it’s a start.”

I wondered why that would be considered good news. When it comes to double homicide and the victims happen to be your parents, ignorance could be bliss.

“It means you’re getting better,” Jolie persisted.

“I wasn’t sick in the first place,” I pointed out, testy now that I was receiving an adequate oxygen supply.