The article ran a picture of my father, a small black-and-white photo. It was even a little blurry, the way he had been. Ill defined. Quiet. Muffled. What other man would have been the right match for my mother, with her habit of bright, loud insistency? There was no doubting her, no questioning her. She didn’t just make the decisions in our lives; she defined our lives. We existed because she told us: exist. Things had names and meanings because she said it was okay. My father went along, the way we had. Agreeable. I felt a kind of haze of love as I looked at his tiny, blurry, colorless picture.

There was no mention of my mother in the article, not even her name. It seemed unbelievable. She was the creator of the world, wasn’t she? I almost laughed. Maybe all little girls thought that about their mothers. But why would I still feel surprised that the world and all its journalists weren’t forever writing articles about my mother?

Mother of Two Insists on Adding Nutritional Yeast to Orange Juice for Health Benefits. Mother of Two Allows Swimming in October. Mother of Two Fills Room with Candles Again.

She lit candles around the room on our birthday, and sometimes other days as well, the light like a beacon that Colin might see. Her own private lighthouse. She lit so many candles the quality of air in the room changed, grew dazzling, smelled sweet, mouthwatering. I could feel the wax between my teeth.

Once firemen came because neighbors saw the dancing light through the window. They stood in the kitchen, while she explained. She didn’t mention Colin. She said, “I light candles.” That was all. No apology, no explanation. And yet, when the firemen left, one of them looked back at her with pity. I could still see his expression, feel it like scar tissue still there after so many years. After they left, she was small and sad. It was a terrible sight. Stripped bare, that blurry vulnerable look of someone wiped clean of makeup, someone without their glasses, that terrible feeling that you can almost, but not quite, recognize someone who should be more familiar to you.

I don’t know why I thought of this that day in the library. I wondered if memories were surfacing because I was approaching the truth. But as I read through those old papers from so many years ago, I felt further and further away from any truth.

But then I found it: Tragic Ferry Accident Leaves Infant Dead. It was front-page news, of course. I read it in a kind of panic, wanting to know more, but afraid to. The night had been stormy. The baby had been sick. The boat had pitched in some rough water, and baby and mother had tumbled over the side.

Baby and mother?

Both of them?