Rosie spoke softly through the lines; remembering the day long since passed seemed to erase years from her voice. “Oh, Gavin’s graduation from the University of Virginia was spectacular. All he could talk about was his upcoming trip to Ireland. He was convinced he would find the Donohues’ castle and we’d all turn out to be royalty. There was shrimp cocktail and martinis. Your grandparents hired a four-piece band with trumpets. Trumpets, I’m telling you—it was fancy for sure. Your mother—well, she spent most of the day crying about him leaving the next morning. Poor thing.”

Uncle Fred’s voice sounded deep and resonant. “How come you can’t remember to pick up the dry cleaning but you remember your brother’s graduation day so perfectly?”

“Because I love my brother and I don’t love the dry cleaner. You be quiet and get back to your Golf Channel that’s so exciting. Anyway, Lena, we celebrated in grand style at the country club and your dad kissed Ms. Elizabeth good-bye and off he went to Ireland.”

Uncle Fred chimed in, “A shame what happened then. Poor Elizabeth.”

Colleen stared at the photo. Her mother wasn’t in it—wasn’t even part of the background. “A shame?” she asked.

“Oh, pay him no mind. He’s still thinking of her terrible death. We all are, dear. We miss her very much.”

“I miss her, too, Aunt Rosie.”

“Well, darling Lena, we will see you soon.”

Colleen hung up the phone and felt her skin tingle in irritation at Aunt Rosie pitying her mother. There was nothing about Elizabeth Donohue that warranted the word “poor,” that was for damn sure.

Colleen set her mind to typing the story, imagining her dad at college graduation, and headed for his European trip, so full of adventure for whatever might come next in his life.

Chapter Twelve

Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.

Michel de Montaigne, Essays

Seated in the Donohue family kitchen, Colleen hit save twice, always twice, on the third story she’d written that day from interviews with the folks in her dad’s photos. Aunt Rosalind had been the last. The first photo was of a baseball team circa fifth grade showing Gavin and his best friend, Nick. She’d spoken to Nick’s mother and learned that Nick had died in a car crash fifteen years ago, but she’d relayed a story of the time Gavin and Nick tried to build a baseball diamond in the backyard by burning the grass into a diamond shape using gasoline. What trouble they got in, she’d said as she laughed.