The first few shots were no help. There was one of Rose in huge sunglasses, with a scarf tied over her hair, sitting in a red convertible that Carrie didn't recognize, although according to the accompanying caption, Bobby had a black one just like it. The car photo was followed by two pages that featured Rose's jewelry collection, every glittery piece a gift from Bobby. Each item commemorated one of his achievements: an opening night, an award. Carrie didn't remember ever seeing any of the jewelry either.

On the next page a caption read, “Rose shows off the entrance to her Park Avenue penthouse.” The accompanying picture showed Carrie's mother in the foyer of a palatial apartment. Behind her was a sweeping mahogany staircase. Above her head was a huge chandelier dripping with crystals. The walls and ceiling of the foyer were draped in purple paisley silk. Carrie had a sudden flash of touching exotic fabric that billowed like a balloon. She remembered—or thought she did—sitting on the massive stairs and waving good-bye to someone. She remembered—or thought she did—the scent of lemony cologne. Carrie kept turning the pages. She saw a dining room with walls covered in gold leaf, a living room with French doors opening onto a wraparound terrace with a four-sided view of the Manhattan skyline, a huge kitchen, and an immense master bedroom. Some of this grandeur seemed familiar—but once again, she couldn't be sure. Had the photos jogged her memory, or her imagination?

Then, on the last page, she saw two rooms she knew she remembered: the rooms that had made up her nursery suite. Pink ruffles trimmed with white lace had been everywhere—on the curtains, the crib, and the pretty little rocking chair. The bedroom was where Carrie had slept; the second room was her playroom, where her toys had been kept. There were stuffed animals, board games, books, a child-size oven and refrigerator, little tea sets and tiny pots and pans, a dollhouse, a playhouse, and a go-cart. There was a television and a stereo player with stacks of children's records. There were mountains of dolls: baby dolls, Barbie dolls, Ken dolls, Skippy dolls, Madame Alexander dolls, and rag dolls. Dolls with complete wardrobes and their own houses and cars. German porcelain dolls in period dress that would one day be collectors’ items.

There were toys that Carrie had never played with, still in the original boxes, piled on shelves that reached from the floor of her playroom to the ceiling. As she sat in the Library for the Performing Arts, thirteen-year-old Carrie remembered them.

THE STOOP WAS hard and Carrie's butt was starting to hurt. But she didn't get up. She didn't take out the key ring, unlock the front door of the brownstone, and let herself inside. She still wasn't ready to climb those five flights of stairs to her mother's empty apartment.