“Please tell me what else you know,” I said. “Back in the ’80s and ’90s, there were a number of psychiatric journals documenting Multiple Personality Disorder being a manifestation of ritualistic abuse, sometimes satanic in nature.” Chills crept through me. The dampness of my clothes from the rain was finally soaking into my skin. “That’s what Cliff thought, that she was mixed up in devil worship.”

“What would make him think that?”

“Well, she spoke of cutting Dawn Young with a knife,” she said, matter-of-factly. “So did you.”

“No,” I said. “I couldn’t.”

She smiled sympathetically. “You blocked it out. Memory loss is common in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

Coldness seeped deeper into me. I felt it in my bones. My teeth chattered.

She took another bite of a veggie roll from her plate. I glanced at the sushi platter, and my stomach twisted. I felt stirred up, turbid. Nothing was settling to the bottom. There was no clarity rising to the surface of my mind.

“How are your siblings, hon?” she said, keen to move the subject on, her eyes now kind.

“I don’t keep in touch.” Seemed like the easiest answer.

“Family is funny, isn’t it? My children, when they were small, they were everything to me. My air, my food, my water. But then they grow up and they form their own opinions and they don’t need you, and sometimes you wonder, who the heck are you, child, and how is it possible I raised you?” She laughed. What would it have been like if I’d had this woman for a mother, someone who drank tea instead of vodka? Someone who made the effort, with herself, with conversation.

“Do your kids live near?”

“My youngest, Pierce, he hadn’t been born yet when you stayed with us, he’s my loyal one, my helper. He’s in Hunther. My oldest, Claire, she’s gone and hates coming back. She’s defiant. Bitter. Maybe because she hasn’t found a man yet, I don’t know. Maybe because I was too strict. You’re always toughest on your first, no helping that. But you two girls, you were such a pair when you were little.” She smiled, liquid memories in her eyes. “You were wonderful girls. Good girls. Now my middle child, Donnie, he’s an entrepreneur. He’s my wild child. My smart ass. He comes around here and there, but he’s, well—we don’t agree on much.”

“Oh, I have a question,” I said, as if I were a student. “How did I end up staying here in the first place?”