Page 29

wort the sugar-rich liquid extracted from mash before fermentation

THE JEWELRY shop occupied a narrow storefront on East Chinoe Street, its windows filled with estate pieces I admired but could never afford.

A brass bell chimed as I entered, and the elderly craftsman behind the counter looked up from his work through thick magnifying glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"Yes?" he asked simply.

"I need a photograph mounted in a pendant," I explained, carefully removing one of the pictures Suzy had given me from its protective envelope. "Something large enough to see clearly, but not too flashy."

His weathered hands examined the photo with practiced care.

In it, my mother stood laughing beside a group of friends, her face bright with the kind of unguarded joy I'd rarely seen in her later years.

The image was crisp enough to show the freckles across her nose and the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled.

"Beautiful girl," he murmured, adjusting his glasses.

"Thank you. She's my mother." I swallowed. " Was my mother."

He grunted. "I can mount this in a silver bezel with a sturdy chain."

"How much will it cost?" I asked nervously.

"Don't worry," he said. "Come back in an hour."

I wandered the streets of downtown Lexington while I waited, eventually finding myself in the neighborhood where Suzy said my mother had rented an apartment.

The aged buildings had probably looked much the same thirty years ago.

The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, weeds pushing through the concrete joints, and I tried to imagine my young mother walking these same paths.

Had she hurried along these sidewalks on her way to work at the bar, her waitress shoes clicking against the pavement?

Had she strolled hand-in-hand with the mysterious Bourbon Man past the corner grocery store that now sold lottery tickets and energy drinks?

The air smelled of hot asphalt and frying food from a nearby restaurant, urban scents that might have been familiar to her.

I paused outside a small apartment building with peeling paint and window air conditioners that dripped steadily onto the walkway below.

The building had the tired look of a place where young people lived temporarily, saving money and figuring out their lives.

Had she climbed these stairs every night, her tips jingling in her pocket, dreaming of something better?

Standing there in the humid afternoon heat, I tried to imagine the moment she discovered she was pregnant with me.

Had she been alone in a cramped bathroom, staring at a pregnancy test with growing panic?

Or had she suspected for weeks, noticing the changes in her body with a mixture of wonder and fear?

Most importantly, had she told him—my father, whoever he was?

Had she called him with trembling fingers, practiced the words in her mirror before knocking on his door?

Had he been someone she could trust with such momentous news, or had she already known he was the kind of man who would disappear at the first sign of responsibility?

The questions swirled through my mind as I walked block after block until my feet began to ache in my sandals.

Every storefront, every bench, every street corner could have been part of her story.

The laundromat where she might have washed her uniforms. The pharmacy where she could have bought prenatal vitamins.

The bus stop where she might have waited, hand unconsciously protecting the life growing inside her.

When I returned to the jewelry shop, the pendant was ready—a perfect oval of silver that held my mother's laughing face like a window to the past. The craftsman had chosen a substantial chain that wouldn't break easily, and as I fastened it around my neck, I could feel the weight of it resting against my chest.

"I love it," I breathed, then braced myself for the price.

"Wear it in good health and my blessing," he said, waving away my worn wallet. I thanked him profusely and left before he could change his mind.

Back in my car, I adjusted the rearview mirror to look at the necklace.

My mother's young face smiled back at me, and for the first time, I felt like I was carrying her with me in more than just memory.

The pendant caught the afternoon light, and I could almost imagine I felt her approval warming against my skin.