Andrew’s memory issues made a terrible situation worse. He had begun losing bits of himself—short-term memory, fine motor control, rational thinking. The doctors characterized the dementia as a mild form. Intermittent. Early stage—the awful implication being that it would progress. Increasing memory loss, disinhibition, hallucinations. Natalie’s mother had said Grandy got scared and confused sometimes, and other times, he seemed like his old self. He’d lost weight and suffered from headaches, tremors, and fatigue, which the care team couldn’t explain.

Natalie had not been prepared for how hard it was turning out to be. It made the current situation a fresh horror to him every time he forgot his daughter had been killed and had to be reminded. Did he feel the same wave of shock and grief all over again? Did he have to keep feeling that fresh pain? She couldn’t imagine having to experience the initial overwhelming stab of that first detonation of news, again and again.

Andrew took a breath. His face didn’t change. He scarcely moved. But his dark eyes reflected such an inexpressible sadness that Natalie flinched. “I know,” she whispered, taking his hand and leading him to the door. “It hurts all the time. Every waking moment.”

“Yes,” he said. “The pain is a reflection of how much we loved her.”

“You’ve always had a way with words.”

“Blythe said it runs in the family. She’s been reading Colleen’s journals.”

“Colleen. You mean your ancestor, the one who died in the 1906 earthquake?”

“The grandmother I never knew. My dear father was just seven years old when he lost her and was sent to an orphanage. He rarely spoke of that day, but I believe it haunted him all his life.”

Lately, Grandy had clearer memories of the distant past than he did of events that occurred five minutes ago. “I didn’t know about Colleen’s journals.”

“Blythe found them not long ago. I don’t know what she’s done with them.”

It was possible that the journals were a figment of Grandy’s imagination, since all they knew of Colleen O’Rourke Harper was that she’d immigrated from Ireland, had one son—Grandy’s father, Julius—and disappeared when the earthquake struck. The family history had been altered forever by a mysterious twist of fate.

Was that what happened to you and Rick, Mom? Natalie wondered. A twist of fate? Or had Natalie herself orchestrated it when she’d invited her mother to the company party? Every day, she wished she could snatch back that moment.

She paused at the hall tree by the door as her grandfather went through his familiar going-out routine. First, the soft, wispy neck cloth. Then the overcoat, the black fedora, and finally the cane. No umbrella needed today. It was foggy and damp but not raining. The bright yellow leaves of early autumn were decoupaged against the pavement.