The memory evaporates into a bleakness that is echoed in the gray light outside. I have no right to think of Tate in this way, and I write that in my notebook, underline it three times. I look up; Sefina waits with her arms folded on the table, spoon abandoned in her stew.

I point to my notebook. “Yes, I saw him but we really have nothing in common anymore, Sefina. It was good to see him, though.” That’s not in my notes, but it’s not hard to guess either.

“And Alice? You have it written down that she’s back in Whittier, right?”

A cube of beef falls from my spoon, splashes stew onto the table. I put my hands into my lap to stop the shaking. She’s moved back? I scan my notebook, see a line about Mom being back and Ruth keeping it from me. I’m suddenly hot, and I slide my arms out of my dad’s flannel. “Yes, it’s right here, but you know that doesn’t change anything, right?” I ask what upsets me the most. “But why didn’t Ruth tell me she was back?”

Sefina sighs, takes a long sip of water before answering. “She has, Claire. But it’s hard for you to accept, and sometimes you are so distracted trying to write everything down that you miss the really important bits. Like”—her eyebrows raise—“Ruth telling you probably a thousand times by now.”

Her words sting, but I write it down anyway, including the fact that Ruth has been trying to tell me the truth. It does soften my uneasiness to know she’s tried.

“It would be good for you to try to see Alice more,” Sefina says, her voice heavy with something I can’t figure out. “She’s really changed and she wants to be here for you now that—”

“She’s sober?” I finish for her, not entirely sure where it came from but knowing, on some level, that it’s true.

Sefina’s eyebrows move closer together. “You remember that?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

“That’s amazing, Claire. Truly.” She shakes her head, smiles, and taps her chin like she’s thinking. “You know, it’s possible to remember some things, like out of habit. I read this article once about a person with amnesia who, in the beginning, had to be told he had lost his short-term memory, so they wrote it on a card that he kept in his shirt pocket.” Her face brightens. “You did something similar, I think.”

“I did?”