But as you moved among the living, it was clear they all saw you. They talked to you, laughed, smiled. You weren’t a figment of my imagination. You were very real. Perfect.

Tightness clutched my chest. I felt suddenly both thrilled and sorry I had come. My grainy memories, replayed too often, were now faded and lackluster. Suddenly they wouldn’t do anymore. Seeing you in the flesh had made them obsolete.

I’d never expected to see you again, beyond dreams and fantasies. And yet here you were, flesh and blood, twenty feet away. My system heated as my thoughts raced and collided. An overload was coming. Never a good thing. I pivoted toward the door.

Outside, I looked at the grainy image of your face. I’d thought I had never forgotten one detail about you. But now I saw time had degraded my memory. Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz had jumped from black and white to Technicolor.

2 MARISA

2

MARISA

Friday, March 11, 2022

Richmond, Virginia

7:45 p.m.

“Happy birthday to us, Clare.” The Stockton twins had hit the big three-oh. The last thirty years had been rough for me, and it was a minor miracle I was here. But it was bittersweet: I wasn’t the twin who’d been murdered thirteen years ago.

Perhaps that was why our older sister, Brit, believed celebrating our thirtieth birthday in style was imperative. Another decade bit the dust. We, or at least I, had officially grown up.

Despite several noes from me about a party, Brit had indicated that she’d already invited our high school friends, ordered our favorite cake, and chosen blue balloons—our favorite. No clowns, she swore with a smile. (We never liked clowns.) It would be fun, she said. Good to celebrate this milestone.

When Brit’s talking points didn’t sway me, she reminded me, as any good sister would, “You’re lucky to be alive.”

The comment cut deep and robbed me of a response.

“We were all worried about you after the accident in January,” she said. “Refusing is basically selfish.”

Selfish was a word Brit had aimed my way a lot over the years: I spent too much time squandering a life you never had. The truth pissed me off, and she knew it. I said yes to the party.

The party was being held at J.J.’s Pub, which was within walking distance of my apartment. J.J.’s Pub was a somebody-might-know-your-name kind of place that served killer fries and tall, cold brews. It was also owned by Jack Dutton, my high school drug buddy. We were both clean now, but back in the day . . .

My sister’s choice of venues was strategic. Not only was she tossing her high school boyfriend Jack some business, but she knew I’d always show up for J.J.’s Pub fries, even on birthdays that felt like a loss, not a win.