“You don’t have to,” Thomas says like he’s read my mind.

I step onto a dark country road, the past a heavy pack strapped to my back. To open it in front of Thomas is a risk—I’m not sure exactly what’s inside. “Do you believe in repressed memories?”

“I get the idea, but it always seemed like a cop-out, a way to blame others for adult hang-ups.”

“I was in that camp, too, but I didn’t remember much about what I’m going to tell you . . . until last night.”

Thomas props his head on one elbow. He asks, “What did you remember?”

My body tenses. “I vaguely recalled the showers, but last night the reason why came back to me.”

“Showers?” Thomas asks.

I gather my thoughts. “When I came to High River, I wet the bed every night. I was almost six, way too old for that. Mom decided to sleep in my bedroom. The plan, I think, was to wake me up after a few hours, take me to the toilet, and get me in the habit of doing it myself. I’m pretty sure that she thought the problem was the new house, different routine.”

“Makes sense,” Thomas says.

“I guess. Yeah. That night, she read me a story before lights out . . . and then she was shaking me. The look on her face . . . She was scared, but disgusted, too.”

“Why?”

My cheeks burn. “I thought it was just that I’d peed the bed. She dragged me up the narrow staircase to her bathroom. My legs were hot, sticky, and she forced me into a cold shower, scrubbed the pen off my skin—”

“Pen?”

I twist the edge of the bed’s blanket. “In the mirror last night, a vision of a naked little girl on the tiles of my parents’ shower appeared. That girl was me. There were letters and numbers written on her skin . . . my skin. I’d forgotten that part.”

“Was that the only time?” Thomas asks, his tone middle-of-the-road.

I’m relieved that he’s put on his journalist hat. If he gave me any sympathy in this moment, I’d probably cry. “No, though I can’t say how many more times it happened. Mom would read me a bedtime story. At some point, I’d pee the bed. She’d shake me out of whatever stupor I was in, drag me upstairs to shower. Then she’d wait in a leather chair outside the bathroom door while I dried off, put on the clean pj’s she’d left folded on the counter. I’d apologize then go back to bed.”

“What about Wess? Did he ever step in?”

Suddenly cold, I pull the covers higher. “I think Dad argued with her at least once, said they should find a therapist, not douse me with cold water. But Mom believed the cold showers would do the trick.”

Thomas says, “It’s a harsh punishment.”

“She didn’t spank, hit with a belt, or worse. It was just water. And it worked.” My mind struggles to put the memories into context. “On the train you asked if my gift began when I was a kid. If I knew when the telephone was going to ring, or if someone had died.”