She glanced at me with a face full of skepticism, a face that said, Don’t bother with that. I’ve swum my way through lies of every kind. I wondered how long it would be before I added her expression to my own catalog of telling looks. I was that miserable about myself. It clung to every part of my body like honey would if I had bathed in it, but there was nothing sweet about this feeling, nothing at all.

Without much to pack, I had my bag ready quickly and started down the stairs. Hazel was sitting with my great-aunt, who had just woken but was still dazed from her sleep. When she looked at me, she wasn’t surprised, but she didn’t show any signs of recognition, either. It was as if she was looking through me.

“Your carriage just arrived,” Hazel said. She was holding my great-aunt’s hand. “I just started to tell her you were leavin’.”

“I’m sorry I have to go so soon, Aunt Nettie. I’ll try to come back.”

“Rosemary’s daughter’s leavin’, Nettie.”

Her eyes widened as she became more fully awake. “When Rosemary was a little girl, she broke her finger climbing a tree. My sister wanted to give her a whipping, but her husband wouldn’t hear of it. Rosemary loved her daddy, but she didn’t have him long, and she was as jealous as a Barbary pigeon.”

Hazel smiled. “She does that on and off these days, remembers things way back and spins them out and then doesn’t talk for hours. You gotta be around to scoop them up. She can’t hold a pen long, or I’d have her write some of it down.”

“Who was she jealous of?” I asked, now truly curious.

Hazel looked at my great-aunt, who was just staring at me now. “Who else,” Hazel asked me, answering for her, “but other girls who had their fathers to love and have them love them?”

It was as if a curtain had been opened a little. Hazel was right. Family history was important. It could help you realize who you were and who your parents really were. But right now, I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to forget I was here. Nevertheless, I put down my bag and hugged my great-aunt, who looked at me with surprise and delight.

“She’ll talk about her sister all day now,” Hazel said, rising to walk me to the door and then out to the waiting taxi. The driver had taken my bag and started to help me in when Hazel reached out for my arm.

“When you have a bad memory, Corrine, you think of dippin’ a spoon into the ocean. Don’t hold the memory long. Drop it back in, and tell yourself you’ll never find that spoonful again. That’s what my daddy taught me.”