There’s a line about teaching guitar lessons that lifts my eyebrows. What in the world made me come up with that kind of idea? Already a memory rises, unbidden. Mom across from me on the floor, a cheap guitar balanced in her lap, the instructional book opened in front of her. Okay, Claire bear, it says here that every guitar player should start with these eight chords. And today’s lesson focuses on two of those chords. A wrinkle formed between her eyes when she looked at me. You’re missing something. I sat cross-legged, my elbows resting on my legs, head in my hands, just watching. She was beautiful. Dark hair shiny and thick. Skin glowing and smooth, and the way she looked at me, like I was the most important kid in the whole world. Dad had always told me that when he first saw her, he felt knocked in the gut. It felt that way being her daughter, too, before alcohol took over.

She smiled at me, touched the dimple in my chin with her thumb. I know what’s missing. Go look on your bed.

I’d scrambled to my feet and raced to my bedroom, squealing when I saw what rested on my pillow. A small guitar. And even better, it was purple. My favorite color.

I returned to the living room, beaming, and took my place on the floor across from her, hugging the guitar to my chest. I love it!

She’d touched my face, her eyes bright, and when she spoke her voice was thick. I love you, Claire.

I shake my head, wait for the burn in my eyes to fade. I wish these memories didn’t still hurt. Haven’t I shed enough tears for her?

I breathe in and return to my job, relieved to see I’d crossed the idea out completely. I nod, agreeing with myself. It’s a bad idea. But the next note is like a slap across my cheek. Mom lives in Whittier, and Ruth knows but didn’t tell me. I flip backward through the month. Does Dad know? He must have told me at some point. He would never keep that from me.

I tilt my head when I see the page for September 21. It’s been almost entirely marked out with black marker. Nearly an entire day gone. I flip forward from there, stop, my hands hovering over the pages. There are blacked-out sentences on every day since. I suck in my bottom lip. A sadness coils around my heart. Am I this determined to reject her so completely? I feel a twinge of guilt at the idea and an anxiousness that creeps across my skull. I hate that I can’t remember.