I idle in the drive-thru at our local burger place and order the works. Even a chocolate milkshake. When I get home, I go for the tapes right away. It’s like there’s a poltergeist in my house putting those little cassettes in my face and telling me to PLAY them.

So that’s just what I do.

I can’t resist.

I’m a moth to the flame.

I eat slowly and listen to every word. I also see every single thing that my younger self is describing. I am reliving it all. I want to stop the player, but I can’t; I’m an addict. I’m someone without the good sense to throw the damn thing into the trash.

The garbage disposal. That is if I had one.

Run over it in my car.

“Go on, dear,” Dr. Albright says in her sweet, yet urgent voice. “You’re doing fine. You’re revisiting a time and place that made you… but doesn’t have an iron grip on you. You can be free. Acceptance is what we’re going for here.”

It’s almost laughable how those words spoken a decade ago still ring false.

I finish my milkshake, making that sucking noise that kids do when they want to get every last drop.

I close my eyes and allow a memory to fill my head.

* * *

Hayden was asleep in the bedroom across the hall from mine. The house was quiet; I could actually hear the clock in the foyer ticking away the time. My thoughts had been racing, looping, spinning, since we’d arrived in Idaho. I padded downstairs and found Aunt Ginger in the darkened living room, the curtains still drawn. The TV was still on mute. The light flickering over her face altered her appearance a little. She didn’t look like my mother at all. Her eyes were darker; her hair was long and lifeless, without even the faintest trace of a shimmer. By the time I took a seat next to her, I had already learned everything I could about her by studying the photographs in the hallway, and yes, digging through every drawer that I could when she was getting our rooms ready. I knew that she was single. She loved the scent of lavender. I knew that she was estranged from her son and daughter. I didn’t know exactly why, and when it got right down to it, I really didn’t care. What I did care about was the truth. What I cared about was finding my mother.

Dr. A: Rylee, what did your aunt tell you? About your mother?

Me: Sorry. Just thinking about it. How incredible and awful it all seemed to me.

Dr. A: But you’re here now. You’re safe.

Me: (pause). I think so. But I don’t know for sure. No one really does.

Dr. A: I suppose that’s so. You’re no longer in imminent danger.