“No, but I watched her paint a few times during Mom’s garage art classes. Remember those?”

“Sip and paint.” I nodded.

“You’re right,” she said and laughed. “Too bad it wasn’t a big money maker back then like it is now. She was good at that. She was funny and wild. She made those women laugh.”

I’d heard laughter coming from the garage. I guess I’d never assumed my mom was the cause.

Holly’s eyes grew misty. “Mom was generous with Dawn. Lent her scarfs, jewelry, shoes. Never had her pay for art class or her supplies.”

I didn’t remember Mom as generous. It was strange, these two versions of her. Having this conversation with my sister was strange too. It wasn’t quite pleasant, but it was comfortable. Like that old pair of shabby, smelly slippers that you kind of wanted to throw out, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pitch them because they were so cozy. I wasn’t worried about annoying Holly or pissing her off, which was kind of nice. I could see myself lingering here, revisiting memories, our conversation chasing tails for hours. Brief laughs followed by stretches of casual disagreement. The thought exhausted me.

Say what’s on your mind so you don’t have to come back if you don’t want to.

“I think Rodney killed Dawn, and Mom confessed to cover for him.”

“What?” she said, flinching as if I’d slapped her. “No way, Heather.” She shook her head. “Rodney couldn’t hurt a fly. He was so gentle.”

“Rodney was scary.”

“What?” She laughed. “Rodney was sensitive.”

“After we moved,” I said, “Rodney went to the doctor for regular blood tests. Do you remember that?”

She nodded and said, tenderly, “He had migraines. Sometimes he’d have to go sit in a dark room.”

“Don’t you remember Rodney and those dead opossums?”

She flinched again. “What? No. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Everything was upside down here. I was losing patience, getting pissed off.

From the next room, a voice called, “Holly?”

“I’ll be there in a minute, Bruce,” she said loud enough for him to hear.

“You said you came here to help Mom,” I said. “You wanted to show me something.”

She sighed, annoyed as well. Stood and went to her refrigerator, grabbed an envelope stuck under a magnet, put it in front of me. The envelope had been torn open. It was addressed to our mom; the return address was Minnesota.

“After Mom’s funeral, I brought all her boxes, all her crap, to my house. Well, I started going through her stuff and came across this.”

I opened the envelope and flattened the paper. A letter. It was worn thin. It had been folded and handled many times.

Melinda,
Step 9 here. You’re probably familiar. For you, it was AA. For me, NA.