“I would’ve been pleased for Dolores to see you again—I want you to know that. Cheapen her reputation, indeed. Even had that been true, it would’ve been his concern alone, not mine. But Dolly’d already forgotten. It was extracted, I mean, taken. And anyway, he’s the only one who had a say.”

When I stood erect, he followed suit and closed the gap I’d tried to establish between us. This time it was intentional.

“I’m not trying to upset you, Elsie, I’m trying to help you understand. To show you that I do.”

I didn’t move when his fingers traced my arm as though he’d done it a thousand times. But I knew there was a danger in him believing that he had.

“My God. Look how you’ve changed just since coming home. Look at the way your skin glows.” He’d noticed how my color had changed since meeting Dolores, but I would not tell him why. Lyman wasn’t Walter’s extract, he wasn’t his wife’s overworked attendant, but I could feel the tension rising through my shoulders just the same.

“There’s something about you that she never was; never from the moment I met her was she so sure of anything—of herself—as you are. That’s how I know what you are. You aren’t a memory, Elsie—Dolly’s missing more than that.”

“I am,” I said, despite myself. “I am a memory.”

“You aren’t,” he insisted, shaking his head, both his hands on my arms now. He wore something like a smile, but it was pained, as though he’d been working this out alone for too long and now he needed something more from me than I could comprehend. “You’re whatever happened in her that morning, and your father—who didn’t know better—had it taken out. You’re the realest version of Dolores. You’re everything she could have been from that moment on.”

“It was a split second, Lyman.”

“Then that’s all I want. It’s all I’m asking for. A moment. Isn’t that what makes a man, what makes you something else entirely? One moment and how we respond?” he said, his voice hoarse and low.

“I don’t disagree,” I said, turning my head away so as not to speak directly into his face. When his hand rose to caress my cheek, I snatched his wrist. “I would suggest then that this is one of them.”

His face fell and he shrank back, holding his wrist in the other hand as though I’d wounded him.

“I am not your wife, Mr. Shepherd. And I am not her Mem.”

He backed away, his glassy eyes transparent now. This was the first time I stated aloud what I knew to be true. And Lyman Shepherd was unsurprised.

“I know,” he said.