Shane lifted a photo of Dad and Bob fishing. “I’ve discovered he’s most lucid in the familiar places—so maybe you can talk to him at home or in the pub or out on the river.” Shane then turned to reach into a high cabinet and bring out a leather-bound book that he plopped onto the table. “Here’s the book,” he said. “The clasp is a seashell I found in Dad’s bedroom. I think it was Mother’s.”

“This is amazing,” Hallie said in a voice full of wonder, the tone she’d have used when Colleen told her a story about the mermaids that might live in the river behind their house.

Colleen opened it. Thick creamy paper had been hand-sewn into the spine. On the first page was an image of Dad on the day of his birth, a black-and-white photo of a crumpled baby in a bassinet who looked more like a shrunken old man than a newborn. He was wrapped in a white blanket and only his little face with his squinted eyes and furrowed brow appeared. A blurry sign was posted on the end of the bassinet with BOY writ larger than his name. In neat calligraphy next to the photo read:

Gavin Aengus Donohue

April 16, 1956

Richmond, Virginia

“We are going to fill the rest of these pages,” Shane said.

“His life full of love,” Colleen said. She paused to find what she was trying to say as she looked at the photo that had already been pasted in, as the weight of the beautiful and terrible past, and the unknown future, swelled inside her. “Alzheimer’s can’t take away that—not the love.”

Chapter Nine

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Fire of Drift-Wood”

The siblings continued to sort through the photos until the glissandi of a harp brought Colleen’s glance around to search for its source: Hallie’s cell phone on the kitchen table; her ringtone with one word on the screen: hubby.

As Colleen’s stomach lurched upward, she rose and hurried to the bathroom, which was still foggy and warm from Shane’s shower. She slammed shut the door and inhaled the fragrance of soap and shaving cream, a memory aroma of her parents’ bathroom, a comfort.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

The word “hubby” should have brought images of Walter, but oddly it hadn’t. It brought forth, steaming from the past, another time when Colleen hadn’t been chosen, a brief slice in time when she knew their mother loved Hallie first and best. When there was solid-as-the-ground proof that Hallie was the favorite daughter.