There are no photos of me after age eighteen. Is that what happens when parents lose a child? They freeze before in photos? Capture their offspring in picture frames, like fences those lost children can’t scale, where they’re caught in time, always young, sweet, malleable, alive . . . theirs?

The house smells the same, savory not sweet—rosemary, sage, and ginger. To the right is our family room. Comfortable couches with handmade quilts folded on their arms, Dad’s worn leather recliner. A big-screen TV, so he can watch U of O football and Mom can catch whatever talk show is currently her favorite. Growing up it was Oprah. Mom would frequently quote her, although the queen of daytime TV’s battle with weight was an irritant for a woman who never had a problem with self-discipline. I have no idea what Mom likes now.

Holly and I watched movies in this room, a nest of comforters on the floor, packages of Twizzlers, Dots, and Milk Duds strewn around us. I lost my virginity on the loveseat in the corner to Tristan Orton. Lost is the wrong word. I gave it, considered my body similar to a new pair of hiking boots, more comfortable once they were broken in. Holly disagreed, but it wasn’t her call. My folks were at the Pendleton Round-Up—the biggest rodeo in the US, held a few hours away. I’d stayed home to work at Mike’s. A few months later, Tristan said he was in love with me. I broke it off. Love was a tether and by then I knew that I wanted to fly away.

I glance at the basket of yarn in the corner poked through with knitting needles. She’s still at it. When I was a kid, Mom made sweaters that I’d wear out the door, a change of clothes in my backpack for the moment I was out of sight. The memory makes my skin itch.

Mom says, “Join me in the kitchen for tea while I scrounge up something for dinner.”

Not a question. An order. And she has never scrounged up dinner. Her grocery lists are methodical. Weekly meals planned well in advance. I glance at Thomas. He stands in front of a photo taken on the Deschutes River. The salmon dangling in my net is almost as big as me. I was just shy of six, new to the family, on my first father-daughter camping trip. There were hikes with the other duos, a lazy raft down the river, and s’mores by the campfire. The fishing season was catch and release, which meant I had to toss my prize back into the river. That night, after we were settled in the tent, snug in sleeping bags, lights out, I asked Dad if it was the same for foster kids, if I might get thrown back eventually. He promised that he’d be my dad forever.

Thomas doesn’t understand that sometimes good people lie, too.

FIFTEEN

Thomas

I didn’t tell Sylvie as we drove through High River that I’ve been here before. My dad took us once, midsummer, on a windy day to watch the windsurfers race along a river that roiled with waves. We also tried to fish but didn’t catch anything. It was the summer before Dad and Deacan died in the car wreck. My big brother, who was five years older, insisted we listen to NPR on our way to and from High River. He was already obsessed with the news cycle and politics in particular. I push away the memory, focus on the here and now . . .