“Mom?”
“What’s wrong, Amanda?” she asks with alarm.
It’s that obvious, huh?
“Did my dad ever bring me to a baseball game at Fenway Park when I was little?” My words come out in gasps and half-chokes, cracked in two like an egg just before the whites spit on the griddle in bubbling oil.
“What?” she gasps. “What?”
I find a tiny patch of grass next to the curb and sink to the ground, my forehead pressing into my knee.
“Mom? I’m here at a game with Andrew and I keep seeing my dad. In my mind. Like we were in the stands watching a game. He put a baseball cap on my head.”
“Oh, sweetie,” she says through a voice so thick it feels like it’s coming across twenty years of pain. “Oh, Amanda. I thought you’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten? I really was here once with him?” A blast of relief counteracts all my fear. I’m not crazy. I’m not unraveling. I’m not insane.
I look down the street toward the back of the building.
Still no Andrew.
“Mom?” She’s gone silent.
“Yes, sweetie,” she says reluctantly. “You were.”
“Oh,” I say, the sound coming out in waves, like it’s seven syllables, the same on repeat. “Oh, thank God. I’m not crazy. This is a real memory.”
“It is.” She’s breathing slowly. Too slowly. Mom defaults to deep breaths when she has to control her pain. I hope I haven’t triggered any.
“Why don’t I remember it all?” I ask. “Just bits and pieces.”
“Do you remember anything more than the game?”
I close my eyes and try. All I see is a void.
“No.”
“Okay.” She lets out a long sigh.
“Why? What else happened?”
My phone buzzes. I’m sure it’s a text from Andrew, who is probably trying to figure out where the hell I am.
“Can you hop the Green Line? Come home now? Or grab a cab?”
“I can do any of those, but I’m here with Andrew and he’s going to wonder.”
“Is he still entertaining clients?”
“Yes.”
“Then text him. Tell him you need a couple hours. Then go back to him. We need to talk.”
I just blink as I stare across the street at the graffiti.
“Talk?”
“Honey, you’re remembering the very last day you ever saw your dad. Let’s just say it was the worst day of my life, and probably one of the worst of yours, even if you don’t remember everything.”
I look around wildly. Where is Andrew? Why didn’t he follow?
“Okay.”
“I’d feel better if we talked in person. I can come get you.”
“No, I can get a ride. I’ll be home soon, Mom.”
I end the call and pull up a ride share app. Estimated time for pick up: two minutes.
Then I check my texts, expecting one from Andrew. Instead, it’s a text from Marie:
Chuckles doesn’t have balls, so no worries about lotion for him.
I click out of the text function and stand, then turn the text feature back on as the driver appears. I climb in. He has my address from the app and we speed off. I look back one last time.
No Andrew.
As a courtesy I type out a short text to him.
Got sick. Went home. Talk later.
I press Send and then turn off my phone completely.
When I arrive at home, Mom’s in the door, hovering behind the screen. The shadow of her body shows her shoulders tight, her eyebrows high, face a mask of pain and despair.
I hate knowing that I’ve triggered her pain.
“You want coffee?” We walk into the kitchen, her arm around my waist. I’m taller than her, and ever since her car accident this is how it is. She can’t reach up very high without pinching a nerve in her neck. I’m grateful for the affection and take what I can get, leaning into the half hug.
On the counter there is a tray of Cheeto marshmallow treats. I look at her fingernails.
They’re stained orange.
My eyes fill to the point of near blindness. “Mom? What’s going on?”
“Where’s Andrew?”
Half an answer suffices for most people. It’s startling how much you can get away with when you learn this. “He’s back at Fenway, entertaining his investors still.”
“Oh.” Her eyes bounce from the tray of treats to the coffee she just poured to me. “Okay.”
I grab milk from the fridge, my eyes blurred by hands acting from physical memory, and prepare my coffee. She takes a splash of milk as well.
“Tell me,” I ask. It’s not an order.
“I don’t want to make it bigger than it is, Man—Amanda.”
“You haven’t called me Mandy in years, Mom. That’s what Dad called me.”
“I know.” Her voice is contrite. Why?
“Make what bigger?”
“The day your father abandoned you.”
“Why would you make it bigger?”
She sighs and uses a spatula to dig out two pieces of Cheeto treat, munching on one as she hands me mine. I take a relieved bite, the familiar salty-sweet taste so comforting.
“Do you remember the police station?” she whispers, the question stripped down to such a basic handful of words that it dawns on me: Mom knows the trick of giving half the information needed, too.
“Police station?” I lower my brow, trying to understand what she means. Stuffing my face with another bite, I mumble around the mouthful. “What police station?”
“The one you found that day. In South Boston.” She’s handing out pieces of information like I’m—