Reaching for the birthday bag, I pulled out the presents. I set out the Leica, the camera strap, and the bag filled with disposable cameras. All thoughtful gifts. I walked to a shelf near the window and set the Leica next to a dozen other cameras she’d collected. As I turned, I spotted a small red point-and-shoot camera. Daddy had given the camera to Marisa and a pink one to Clare when they turned sixteen. Marisa had all but worn hers out, but Clare had been more selective with her digital pictures, shooting only when her subject wasn’t looking. Annoying but cute.

I folded up the bag and tossed the wrapping before I poured myself a cup, which I was sipping when Marisa appeared dressed in an oversize T-shirt that skimmed her knees. She was gripping her phone in one hand and a metal flashlight in the other.

“Good morning,” I said.

“I thought I had a break-in.”

“You know I have a key.”

“I’d forgotten.”

I filled another cup. “How’s your memory?”

“Good except for the missing chunk.” She set her phone and flashlight on the counter, took a sip, then grabbed milk from the refrigerator. She splashed enough in her mug to lighten it two shades.

“Have you seen the neurologist lately? I remember a follow-up appointment Wednesday.”

Marisa raised her gaze. Sipped coffee. “I rescheduled it for Thursday morning. Too much work for the first of the week, and I like morning appointments better.”

“You rescheduled? You can’t do that. This is your brain we’re talking about.”

“It’s one extra day, the last scan was clear, and this visit wasn’t critical. The doctor said as much at my last appointment. So you can stop.”

Drawing in a breath. “Stop what?”

Marisa grinned. “Mothering.”

The smile caught me off guard, not because Marisa smiled so little (which was true) but because I remembered Clare, the bright, happy twin. When they were born, our mother placed both babies in my three-year-old lap. Clare had cooed, whereas Marisa had cried. Marisa had never been one to cuddle or play, but she was serious and introspective. When the twins had been small, Clare had done all the talking, and Marisa had been content to let her younger twin communicate for them both.

And when that detective had told us they’d found Clare’s body after four days of searching, my father and I had turned to Marisa. Without makeup or her typical goth attire, she looked so much like Clare, and for an instant I thought the cops had made a mistake. Then Marisa spoke, her raspy voice shattering the illusion. She saw the disappointment mirrored on Daddy’s and my faces. We’d both tried to cover, but Marisa had read our expressions.