“Yeah, but as Bill Murray movies go, he could never top Caddyshack,” Harriet adds.

Ruth sits back in her chair. “I’m a Ghostbusters fan myself.”

Sefina, who grew up in a tiny Alaskan town without cable or, at times, running water, draws her eyebrows together. “Who’s Bob Murray?”

And everyone, including me, laughs, my forgotten moment a thing of their past as well. This is why I love them.

Ruth claps her hands and reaches for the brownie-crusted spatula. “Another round?” she asks, and we all push our plates toward the center of the table.

My fork sinks into chocolate gooeyness, and I swirl it around the ice cream before sliding it into my mouth and tasting the explosion of sugar and vanilla, the coolness of the ice cream mixed with the slight bitterness of chocolate. “Wow, this is so good. Who made it?”

There’s a beat, a pause, a lingering in their gazes; then Ruth finishes chewing her brownie, smiles. “I did.”

The air around the table lightens with their laughter, and while I know that in some way I’ve let my mask slip, shown the real me, I shake it off. Sometimes there’s only so much pretending I can do.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Friday, September 28

“It’s really nothing like Groundhog Day, you know?”

“What do you mean?” Kate crosses her legs. She wears navy-blue hiking pants, the kind with thin material that dries in an instant, and worn-in hiking shoes. She’s a good therapist, I think. She’s calm, patient, and honest, and when I get off course, she gently guides me back to whatever conversation we were having that I’ve forgotten about. I used to see Kate when I was a teenager, after Mom left. It was Dad’s idea. Kate lived in Whittier then, before she started her own practice here in Anchorage, so I remember her from before. I don’t know if therapy makes any difference for me, but talking with her calms me and helps me to stay focused. This information is all in the file that I keep on her, so I know it to be fact.

“Bill Murray’s character knew he was living the same day over and over again,” I say. “I don’t feel that way. I mean, I guess in some ways I am, but I’m not frustrated about it the way he was. I’m just”—I shrug—“existing.”

Kate leans forward. “Do you ever feel like that’s not enough?”

Her question is personal in a really intrusive way, even for a therapist, but especially for Kate, who should know better than to ask me something that’s literally impossible. It’s almost cruel of her. “It has to be enough, Kate. What other options do I have?”