She ran her fingertips over the smooth casing covered in small flower stickers. “The police went through all my cameras.”

“When everyone started demonizing my parents, I didn’t want more cops breathing down my neck or another reporter crawling farther up my ass.” I sighed.

Marisa pressed the silver power button, but the camera didn’t turn on. “How long has the battery been dead?”

“At least a decade. I never bothered to replace the batteries.”

“I can get batteries at the drugstore or a photo shop.”

“She carried this everywhere. Always snapping pictures when no one was looking.”

“Did you ever look at the pictures?”

“I did years ago. But I didn’t recognize anyone. Whatever faces I’d seen have long been blurred by time.”

Marisa traced a faded daisy sticker. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, but just having this piece of Clare means a lot.”

“I hope you see a face you recognize.” I smiled. “Now go to your meeting.”

44 MARISA

44

MARISA

Saturday, March 19, 2022

8:00 p.m.

I had kept my promise to Jo-Jo and attended my AA meeting. I sat in the circle, quiet, sipping my coffee, wanting the meeting to pass without me saying anything. I was really more concerned about scoring batteries for Clare’s camera than sharing feelings. But I couldn’t afford another screwup, and if this show-and-tell helped, then so be it.

The group leader, Mark, quickly zeroed in on me. He’d read a version of my story so many times, the pages were tattered and torn. He’d been waiting for an opening to say my name.

“Marisa, I sense you’d like to share,” Mark said.

I dug from my pocket the one-year chip that he’d placed in my hand last month. I cleared my throat. “I had a bad night. Drank three bottles of wine.”

I forced myself to look around the room and meet the gazes of everyone. Refusing to cower, I saw some disappointment, sadness, but mostly understanding.

“Was there a trigger?” Mark asked.

“Family stuff,” I said. “I should’ve seen it coming a mile away.”

“And the next time?”

I couldn’t promise there wasn’t going to be another Brit land mine. “I’ll call my sponsor.”

“I thought you didn’t have one,” Mark said.

He was right. I’d refused the help. “I’ll get one.”

Mark nodded. “Keep the chip. We’ll celebrate next year with it.”

“I’d rather you take it. I’m starting over, and next year I’ll want a new one. Eyes forward, right?” I intentionally used one of Brit’s bullshit sayings to remind myself that she could set all the traps she wanted, but I could maneuver around them.

I laid the chip in Mark’s palm. Releasing this stupid piece of plastic was sad, but with it went the guilt weighing me down since this morning.

“Keep up the good work,” he said.

“Good work?”