The first picture is one of me, facing to the side, rounded belly protruding away from my body. In my father’s handwriting, the caption reads, Claire, 8 months pregnant. My eyes prick with tears because this I do remember, and my hand involuntarily rubs what is now flat and empty. There’s another picture of me and Sefina, standing on what I think is Shotgun Cove Road in snowshoes, my belly straining against my winter coat, and a caption: Claire, still on her snowshoes, 9 months pregnant. I almost smile. It was a cold day, and I was so out of breath and heavy with the baby that I couldn’t go very fast, and Sefina made a big deal about beating me to the end of the trail. There are a few more pictures of me pregnant, and then come ones that are from after, ones of me with a baby. I can’t feel my hands and my face is frozen, but I keep flipping the pages and my heart presses against my ribs. Claire and Mirabelle at the hospital. I lay on a hospital bed, tiny baby resting in a bassinet beside the bed, her brown hair clinging to her tiny head in gentle curls, thumb stuck securely in her small mouth. A baby, Mirabelle. It’s not possible. I glance at my journal, flip to a page worn thin from time and use. I had a seizure. My baby died. I press my arms into my stomach, try to ignore the way I hurt from wanting it to all be true.

Tears slip from my eyes, burn my cheeks. I turn the page to find another photo of Tate holding the baby in a front carrier out by the water. I’m in a chair, mouth twisted as if I’m in pain, Dad beside me with a fishing pole. The sky is a perfect blue, and the water reflects its entire canvas. I cover my mouth, shocked at the listless expression on my face, my empty stare at the camera. My hands shake when I turn the page to find another picture of Mirabelle lying across Tate’s chest, asleep, and the camera captures only the side of his face because he’s staring down at her. I swallow hard, touch the picture. I start flipping the pages faster. Find another one of me kissing her chubby, perfect cheek while she stares at the camera with her big dark-blue eyes. There are more pictures, mostly of Tate and the baby, who grows into a beautiful little, brown-haired girl. The photos make it real and a fairy tale at the same time. And it hurts so damn bad. A thousand bee stings. What happened? I hit the bed with one fist. I want to remember. I want to remember. I want to remember.