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Memory is a tricky thing.

In many ways, we define ourselves by our memories. Who we are is little more than a distillation of who we have been, the many droplets of our past condensed into the glass of our current self. Eventually, our glass is full, and we sit, elderly, left with nothing but our memories.

Something so critical as memory ought to be reliable. One ought to be able to think about one’s past and know that their thoughts are at least in general an accurate representation of the experiences one has had. Sure, the details might be foggy as time passes. A name might be misplaced here and there. A date might shuffle between one month and the next or even one year and the next. But by and large, one should be able to think of one’s past and know that the picture they see is generally complete and generally true to reality.

When memory betrays us, the effect is jarring. One must not only question one's record of events but—if the betrayal is great enough—one's own sense of self.

My memory has betrayed me so often lately that I wonder at times if the woman I think I am is the woman who truly exists or only a construct formed from the fragments of an incomplete mind. Am I a full glass, or am I only a small puddle left behind from a glass that shattered long ago?

“Mary?”

I stiffen and press my hand to my heart. According to Dr. Berat, I’m in excellent health, and my heart is strong, but I turned fifty-three last week, and at my age, I would prefer not to strain that organ any more than I must.

The owner of the voice that startles me winces when he sees my reaction. “Sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Normally, I would snap at him good-naturedly. Friendly banter is the highlight of our relationship. At this moment, however, I am too out of sorts from what I’ve discovered to do so. “That’s all right, Sean. I was just… distracted.”

A look of concern comes to his face. He’s been with me long enough now to know what I mean when I say that. He gestures at the open shoebox on our bed. “Those letters are from Annie then?”

Annie Wilcox was my younger sister. Or possibly my younger sister. She disappeared from the apartment we shared one afternoon over thirty years ago. I assumed when I was younger that she had been caught and murdered by some fiend, but I discovered recently that she had run away on her own accord and survived for at least two years, traveling the country and enjoying adventures.

Well, experiencing adventures. I suppose I can’t know for sure that she enjoyed them.

I spent twenty-eight years convincing myself I had moved on from the past, but as middle age replaced my youth, I realized that I was far from over her loss. I’ve spent much of the past three years looking for her and trying to find out how she spent the last three decades of her life.

No, that’s not true. I’ve spent half of those past three years looking for her and half of them distracting myself with the mysteries of other families so I can have an excuse to avoid the mysteries surrounding my own.

But her mystery keeps thrusting itself back to the forefront of my mind.

“Yes,” I tell Sean. “Well, no. Not from her. From me. To her. I… I didn’t know they were still here.”

Sean crosses the room and sits on the bed next to me. He wraps his arm around me and kisses my forehead. That is normally enough to slay any dragon that plagues my thoughts, but today it doesn’t rise to the challenge.

“Have you read them yet?” he asks.

I haven’t read them, nor have I told him the entire truth about their existence. I didn’t know they were still here because I didn’t know they were ever here. I didn’t know they were ever here because I didn’t know they ever left my apartment. Our apartment. Mine and Annie’s.

“No,” I reply. “I haven’t had a chance.”

Another lie. According to my cell phone, it is two-fifty-nine p.m. That means I've been sitting in this exact spot for nearly three hours. On occasion, when experiencing extreme distress, I will go into a dissociative state and awake with no memory of how I spent my time.

That is not the case this time. This time, I am fully aware of every single second that passes while I stare at letters that I forgot I had written and try to work up the courage to gather more droplets of the memory I’ve left behind.

“Well,” he says, reaching for one of the letters. “Let’s have a look together, shall we?”

“No!” I shriek, tearing the envelope from his hands and flinging it against the far wall.

Sean pulls away from me, and now his concern is mixed with sternness. “Why not? What’s wrong, Mary?”

“I… I want to read them alone. By myself. At least at first. Please understand. This is very personal for me.”

Sean understands very well how personal Annie’s mystery is to me. He also understands that my reticence when it comes to her is sometimes motivated by a desire to hide the past rather than reveal it.

As in this case. I have lied to him once more. I don’t want him to read those letters, and I don’t want to read them either because I am not at all certain I’ll like what I learn. Not about Annie, but about myself.

That is why I fear my memory. The more of my memory that returns to me, the more I see that my sister and I did not enjoy the perfect friendship I thought we did. I fear that if I remember more, I’ll have to come to grips with the fact that I was no friend to her at all.

Sean sighs. “All right. We won’t read them then. But you will.”

“Yes. But not now. I… I have to pack. I have to leave early in the morning.”

Sean sighs once more, then smiles at me. I love the sympathy in his eyes, but oh God, do I hate it as well. “All right, love,” he says. “If you can make it downstairs in time for dinner, there might be some wine left.”

“There will be some wine left because you’re only allowing yourself a single glass per evening, remember?”

“How could I forget with this mosquito buzzing in my ear all day?” I glare at him, and he grins. “And what a lovely mosquito it is.”

The corners of my lips turn up. “You’re talking as though you want to sleep on the couch, Mr. O’Connell.”

“I’ll sleep anywhere as long as your arms are wrapped around me.” He winks. “Your legs as well.”

I gasp and slap him. He catches my wrist and pulls me close so he can kiss me.

I am grateful for that kiss. It helps me forget.

***

I wake before dawn the next day. I have a three-and-a-half-hour drive to Martha’s vineyard, but if I’m caught in the Boston rush hour, that will become a five-hour drive.

Sean is already out of bed. When I come downstairs, dressed and ready to leave, he meets me at the foot of the stairs. “Luggage is all ready to go. It’s in the boot for you.”

I blink. “The boot?”

He rolls his eyes. “The trunk.”

“Oh.” I blush. “Right. Thank you, my love.”

“You’re sure you’re British?”

“After forty-two years in America, I’m as British as you are American,” I tell him. Then I kiss his cheek. “Thank you for last night.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He grins. “My very great—”

I roll my eyes and push him away. “I meant the dinner and the cuddle by the fire, Sean.”

“That’s not all you meant.”

I don't respond with words, but I'm sure the heat in my cheeks gets the point across. "Well, I'm going to leave now so I don't risk getting caught in traffic after all of my best efforts not to. I love you, for some reason, in spite of everything. I'll call you when I arrive."

“Perhaps I’ll come visit you,” he says. “We can have dinner and cuddle by the fire some more.”

“You will not visit me,” I counter. The last thing I need is my overly amorous fiancé arriving at my employer’s house while I’m in the middle of a lesson. “But,” I add, slipping my arms over his shoulders, “if you’re extremely lucky, I might make the drive back on my nights off.” I kiss him softly. “So we can ‘cuddle.’”

He swallows and says somewhat hoarsely. “I’d like that.”

“I’m sure it would please you greatly,” I tease.

I kiss him a final time, then head to my minivan and begin my journey south. I hold onto the image of Sean’s face for as long as I can, but the image of my handwriting on those letters hovers over the back of my mind like a thundercloud waiting for the proper moment to burst into violence.