I wasn’t sure if Kori was angry or hurt or betrayed; anything she’d ever said on the subject was covered with sarcasm. “Oh, bestest buds we were. Our Barbies even had lesbian sex once in college, but then Skipper got between them and Ken got jealous, ’cuz he wanted to be gay first. So he divorced her, took the ’Vette, the beach house, and all of her best dresses. It’s been awkward ever since. But our families still exchange Christmas cards.”

“Isn’t Skipper like Barbie’s cousin? I’m sooo calling Maury Povich.”

“You do love you some Maury, doncha.”

Heat rose up my neck as I remembered requesting to be on his show. I may have even suggested having every man in Kismet DNA-tested to see if any were my father. Kori had to sit on me to get the show application out of my hands, so I really didn’t feel like bringing it all up again and decided to change the subject. “So, what does your tattoo mean?”

“It’s a reminder to forget something.”

“How very Memento of you.” I ran my gaze over the Chinese symbols, thinking: What can’t you forget, Kor?

three

Forgetting wasn’t my problem. Remembering was. Somewhere deep inside the recesses of my brain, I knew images of my father existed. Like a primordial tattoo that was branded during conception.

But when I try to remember back, the earliest memory that surfaces is of a baby bird lying in the parking lot of our complex. I remember wanting to help it. Save it. I went to scoop up the baby so I could somehow put him back in his nest, and my mother grabbed my wrist. She told me if I touched it, I would contaminate it and the parents wouldn’t help it; they’d leave it to die. Horrified, I started crying. But Mom assured me the baby bird’s parents would get it back up in the nest.

I stayed with it, keeping out of sight. Eventually two birds did fly down. I remember the sound of their wings slapping against the air, their beaks hinging wide, the squawking angry screams. They flew, one at a time, up to the nest and then back down. But eventually they gave up. And it was quiet.

As if they knew the baby’s parents would not be coming back, Mrs. Patterson’s cats began stalking the helpless creature. I kept chasing them away, but it was getting dark and Mom was calling me inside. I couldn’t bear to leave the baby bird unprotected, so I scooped it up. Its naked little body, so fragile, struggled for life in my hand.

I made a soft nest in my bathroom sink, where I gave it drops of water. I dug up worms for it to eat. Two days later it was dead.