My father is French, and it pisses him off to no end that I’m less than fluent in his native language. He was a university professor in Paris, until he met my mother and fell in love. She was a graduate student on a study abroad trip, but he decided he couldn’t live without her. So he followed her home to Texas, only to wind up living without her anyway. Now he teaches beginning French to uninterested freshmen at a private high school he could never afford to send me to.

And when he’s irritated—which is most of the time—the French comes out.

Why would you want to go there? he’d asked. To that place. Why drag all that up? We fought about it for days until he finally threw up his hands and declared, Do what you want. Je m’en fiche.

I don’t care.

He didn’t tell me not to apply, but he obviously didn’t understand. Maybe he would have if I’d told him why I wanted to come so bad. If I’d explained how disconnected I’ve always felt. That I just need to find some link to a mother who’s never been anything more than a ghost to me. Some hint of who she was. Some anchor.

So maybe I’ll know who I am.

But I couldn’t tell him any of that, because Dad and I stopped talking—I mean really talking—in English or French—years ago.

I can still see the look on his face when he found out I’d actually been accepted into the program. All pale and thin-lipped. Afraid. The last words he said to me at the airport this morning were Whatever you’re looking for, Avril, it won’t change anything. Elle sera toujours morte.

She’ll still be dead.

So maybe he understands more than I think he does.

The water starts to go cold. I dry off and put on clean clothes, then brush the fuzz of cheap beer from my teeth before I head back to our cabin. The wet, worn wood of the front steps is slick as glass under my flip-flops, and my feet almost go out from under me. I suck in my breath from the surprise. “Shit.” A sharp sound in the dull fog. I grab the handrail to steady myself. I can’t seem to find my footing tonight.

“Avril?”

I turn to look over my shoulder, and I’m instantly blind. Squinting against the glare. Bright light bouncing off the moisture in the air. Hitting me square in the face.

One second, I’m seventeen. Standing on the steps.

The next, I’m five.

Standing in thick, wet grass.

Blinking.

Against that sudden blinding light.

Paralyzed.

I can’t see.

My chest tightens and I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t call out for my mother.

“Avril?”