It would have been so much simpler to talk to my mom when she was alive. Ask her why she drank. I never asked. I never asked her about Becky’s death. It had already been so painful. Part of me hadn’t wanted to cause her pain, part of me was scared of her, and the remaining part of me was scared of her answers.

My mind searched for lost pieces to the puzzle of my mother. I didn’t remember hearing of a girl’s murder. I didn’t remember police stopping by our Hunther home.

The dead opossums though, I remembered them. Desiree said my mom had killed the neighbor’s opossums days before she killed Dawn.

I’d stood in the grass, flies hovering over their bodies in the heat, the smell of grass overpowering any animal smell. They had been laid in the grass, side by side, trinkets scattered about them. Playing cards. Eight of spades. Queen of hearts. A few rocks splashed with paint. A red crystal. A rabbit’s foot.

Rodney had stood, bare-chested, beside me, wiry hair poking out from his armpit, meaty and sour smelling. There was a smattering of acne on his shoulder, and a drip of sweat rolling down his red cheek.

Mom wasn’t in this memory though.

I searched for any memory of my mom with animals.

A stray cat used to come by. Long-haired and mangy, fleas jumping in his fur. My mom and sisters called him Barry Manilow. Mom used to scratch under his neck. We took in two stray dogs, later; this was later, after Becky died, after we left Hunther. The dogs stayed in the yard, but my mom filled their water bowls and tossed them chunks of raw, stinking hot dog.

My mom enjoyed our outdoor cats and dogs. She’d hike up her dress, sit crisscross and barefoot in the grass, and rub their mangy fur. She’d laugh if they snuck a lick of her cheek or neck. Tell them, “No licking me with that filthy mouth,” but she was smiling and laughing all the while. I couldn’t imagine her killing her neighbor’s opossums.

A brushing noise beside the tub startled me.

Emily sat on the toilet, her eyes half-closed, her hair sticking up in a cartoonish way. Her underpants trapped at her knees, her little feet splayed apart, her toes flexed. She’s holding herself up, had a hand on each side of the toilet seat. Her nightgown was bunched up at her waist, resting upon her thighs. She emptied her bladder, and the tinkle was so light, so scant, it’s barely anything, wouldn’t even fill a shot glass, before she’s done.

I opened my mouth to say something, but stopped. I didn’t want to wake her if she was sleepwalking.