“Please don’t go,” he said. “I hate being at parties without you.”

“I know.”

He pouted.

“Rusty, I found Mother’s journal.”

“Oh, wow. Did you read it?”

“Yes, that’s what I was reading all night.”

He stared off for a moment, as if he hadn’t heard me. “I don’t think I could do that—read someone else’s journal. So … invasive.”

“There’s so much about her I didn’t know.”

We walked to the car as we talked. “Of course there is. There’s so much about everyone we don’t know.”

“Well, there were these two summers—’60 and ’61—when she was in college that she had a lover and was involved in some part of the movement.”

“So what? That’s way past, Ellie. Done.”

“So what?”

“I just don’t see how that matters at all now.”

“Well,” I said, taking car keys from my purse and opening the driver’s-side door, “I do see how it matters. I think I might go to Alabama, to the Summer House, and talk to Sadie’s mom … .” My voice trailed off.

He shook his head. “This is not a good time for you to be gone.”

“Why?” I sat in the driver’s seat and started the car.

“We all need you here.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I think I need to go there.”

He stared at me for the longest time, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. Then he dropped his hands onto the top of my car, looking down at me in the driver’s seat. “Maybe you need some counseling or something, darling. I mean, losing a mother is one of the top five stressors in a life.”

“Top five stressors?” I asked. “Like the top five songs of the week? Or the the top five investments for 2010?”

He threw up his hands. “Damn, Ellie, I’m just trying to be helpful.”

I slumped into myself. “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. I’ll just see you at home, okay?” Even as I said the word—sorry—I wondered why I always ended up uttering those five letters in a row when there was nothing I had to be sorry about. Or was there? Confusion seemed to be the preeminent sentiment for me those days.

He nodded. “Yes, see you there.” This was one of those times—those many times—when his words didn’t match the meaning of those same words.

I drove home, and instead of figuring out how to assuage Rusty’s foul mood, I found myself planning what to wear to lunch the next day. This should have been a warning sign, but it merely felt like a distraction.

One thing being called another … maybe that’s where it all began.

Excerpt from Lillian Ashford’s Journal
New Year’s Eve 1960
Twenty Years Old