I turned away from the house, gazed at the lawn, the ornamental trees, the wrap-around driveway. None of it jogged my memory.

The door opened to a simple foyer, the sharp, sweet smell of roses wafting on cooled air. She was in her sixties, stylish in white capris, a thin gray sweater, and ballerina flats. Jewelry on her ears, neck, wrists, and fingers.

“Heather.” Smiling, she said my name the breathy way some people say, “Ocean,” or “Vacation.” Her blond hair was neat, her makeup was perfect. “You don’t remember me,” she said, her eyes kind.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“I’m Alice. Come in, my dear. I had book club last night and I have so much leftover sushi. Cocktails too.” She winked and headed down the hallway, peeking back once. “Please close the door. We’ve got a wasp’s nest in our cherry tree.”

I closed the door, followed her to a gorgeous kitchen remodel. Huge island. A white slab of quartz with asymmetrical gray streaks, glimmers of silver specks. Copper oven. Stone backsplash. Carved kitchen table. Old farmhouse style with a modern twist.

She pulled a silver tray out of the refrigerator. “Why don’t you take this out to the sunporch. I’ll grab us some drinks, and we can catch up. I’m so glad you are here, Heather.”

I took the tray and did as I was told. The triple sliding door was already open so I walked to the screened porch, set the tray down, and gazed at the backyard that stretched a few acres before the woods fenced the property. Even though the day was gray and foggy, the drizzle made for a calming soundtrack—a hushed applause.

One hundred feet back, to the right, a white shed. Beyond it, an old, unmanicured mulberry tree twisted and grabbed at the back of the shed, like a claw. A trio of birds flurried under the tree, maybe to eat fallen berries. The image of the shed ensnared by the mulberry tree sent sparks up my spine, left me breathless. Beyond the mulberries, a narrow creak wound away.

“You remember the fort,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Iced tea,” she said, handing me a glass, ice cubes clinking. “You remember Claire and Donnie?”

“A little. I didn’t remember their names.”

She tilted her head as if to convey, oh how sad that you don’t remember all those good times. “Oh well. You were so young, five, six.” She smiled and rested her chin in her palm. “Most of us don’t remember being that small. We recollect stories that we’ve been told over and over. Or we think we remember events based on photos, but the mind is a funny thing.”