And it’s queer, the sensation, because my mind tries to reconcile how I remember her and how she looks now. A smudged xerox copy covers the original, blurring the lines of what’s supposed to be.

She’s in her fifties now. Izzie came late. She’s tired. And old. Just like the photo. Her dark hair is shot with gray. Her skin sags. She looks beat. Smoke curls up around her face. The tips of the fingers on her right hand are yellowed from nicotine.

Those eyes, though. They’re like Bear’s. And mine. Dulled, maybe, but recognizable.

She sees me, and those eyes go wide. Not in understanding, though. No. In fear. The mug shakes in her hand. The cigarette freezes inches from her face. She doesn’t know who I am. She glances at Izzie, who stands by my side. I’m not touching her, but we’re close to each other. I smell the smoke. I almost choke on it.

She gives a little cry. A defenseless animal, caught and cornered. “Izzie,” she says, sounding out of breath and slightly hysterical. “What is this? What’s going on? What have you done?”

Izzie, more and more my sister, rolls her eyes. “What have I done? I didn’t do anything.”

“This isn’t about her,” I say.

“Isabelle, come here! Get away from him!” The mug shakes and spills Jack to the floor. Ash breaks apart from the cigarette and catches a breeze from the open window. It swirls up with the smoke around my mother’s face, like dark snow. It lands on her cheek. Leaves a smudge.

“Oh, geez, Mom! Calm down!” Izzie looks more annoyed than anything else and embarrassed, as if this somehow is her fault. I should have told her to stay in her room. To shut and lock the door and to not come out until I said it was okay, that it was all okay and nothing would ever be wrong again.

“Not helping, Izzie,” I say.

“I’m calling the police!” Julie McKenna cries. The mug clatters to the counter. The cigarette falls to the floor. She goes for the phone hanging on the wall. It’s chipped and cracked. Like everything else in this house. Like her. Like me.

I say, “Mom. Don’t.”

She stops. She doesn’t turn. Her back is rigid.

The air around me is thick.

Izzie sighs.

“What?” my mother says, her voice a croak. “What?”

“Just… don’t.”

She turns. Her pupils are blown out. Her face is white. Her bottom lip quivers. None of this, though, is from sadness, like I expected. I don’t know why I thought it would be. No, this is still from fear. And for a brief moment, even anger. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but I know it was there. I curl my hands into fists to keep from putting them around her throat.

She kneels down and picks the cigarette off the floor. Her gaze never leaves me. The skin of her cheek twitches. She leaves a bit of ash on the floor. Stands up. Brings the cigarette back to her lips. Inhales deeply. Holds it. One. Two. Three. Exhales the smoke through her nose. One. Two. Three.