It was on a late Alaskan summer night when the sky was perpetually light, and Tate and I were into nothing but trouble. We’d tiptoed through the reindeer pen, nearly overpowered by the heady musk of mud and excrement. The reindeer stared at us through dark eyes and didn’t move a muscle while Tate tied the legs of the hose around his neck. “Do you remember how docile he was?” I say, and Tate nods, eyes bright, smile wide.

“Until we stepped out of the p . . . p-en and he t . . . t . . . ran off!” Tate laughs so hard he stops talking. “But you held on.”

“And Ruth’s pantyhose stretched nearly the entire length of Kenai Street before they snapped out of my hands.” A helium weightlessness fills my insides. I laugh so hard it brings tears to my eyes.

“Do they still call it P . . . p-antyhose Avenue?”

Ruth sets a carrot cake, small plates, and forks onto the table. “That’s quite enough from you two. It’s like no time has passed when you get together.”

I dip my head, don’t add that to me it doesn’t feel like any time has passed.

We eat the cake and I enjoy the easy quiet that comes with people I know well, awash in memories that flow naturally. I finish the last bite, savoring the sweetness of the carrots and the tang of ginger combined with the creamy, sour kick of the cream cheese frosting. “Did Mom make this?”

Ruth’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth. Tate swallows so loud I can hear it.

“What?” I ask.

“You remember?”

The question is a worm, wiggling through holes inside my brain. “Um, well, Mom loves to bake, so . . .” It’s such a direct question, and I can’t figure out what Ruth is asking of me.

Her face softens. “I’m sorry, Claire. That wasn’t fair of me. It’s just that your mom lives here now, and it just seemed like maybe you knew.”

“Mom lives here?” I say, and my hands clench, but I’m thinking of her gentleness and the way she could brush through my thick, tangled hair without pulling too hard or making my sensitive scalp ache. I rub my neck, confused at my thoughts because they don’t have the shadow of anger that’s trailed me since my thirteenth birthday. “Am I still angry with her?”

Before Ruth can answer, a device on the table in front of me lights up. A sticky note on the screen reads Tate gave this to you, it’s like a notebook and a phone. I pick it up, slide open the button, and the screen is filled with a notebook-paper graphic and the date, Saturday, February 2. Writing appears on the screen. Alice is sober. She lives in Whittier and she’s the mom you remember.