Page 35 of We Were Liars

ALL THE WINDOWS in Cuddledown are open when I come down after lunch.

Gat is putting music on the ancient CD player.

My old crayon art is on the refrigerator with magnets: Dad on top, Gran and the goldens on the bottom.

My painting is taped to one of the kitchen cupboards.

A ladder and a big box of gift wrap stand in the center of the great room.

Mirren pushes an armchair across the floor. “I never liked the way my mother kept this place,” she explains.

I help Gat and Johnny move the furniture around until Mirren is happy.

We take down Bess’s landscape watercolors and roll up her rugs.

We pillage the littles’ bedrooms for fun objects.

When we are done, the great room is decorated with piggy banks and patchwork quilts, stacks of children’s books, a lamp shaped like an owl.

Thick sparkling ribbons from the gift-wrap box crisscross the ceiling.

“Won’t Bess be mad you’re redecorating?” I ask.

“I promise you she’s not setting foot in Cuddledown for the rest of the summer. She’s been trying to get out of this place for years.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh,” says Mirren lightly, “you know. Natter natter, least favorite daughter, natter natter, the kitchen is such crap. Why won’t Granddad remodel it? Et cetera.”

“Did she ask him?”

Johnny stares at me oddly. “You don’t remember?”

“Her memory is messed up, Johnny!” yells Mirren. “She doesn’t remember like half our summer fifteen.”

“She doesn’t?” Johnny says. “I thought—”

“No, no, shut up right now,” Mirren barks. “Did you not listen to what I told you?”

“When?” He looks perplexed.

“The other night,” says Mirren. “I told you what Aunt Penny said.”

“Chill,” says Johnny, throwing a pillow at her.

“This is important! How can you not pay attention to this stuff?” Mirren looks like she might cry.

“I’m sorry, all right?” Johnny says. “Gat, did you know about Cadence not remembering, like, most of the summer fifteen?”

“I knew,” he says.

“See?” says Mirren. “Gat was listening.”

My face is hot. I am looking at the floor. No one speaks for a minute. “It’s normal to lose some memory when you hit your head really hard,” I say finally. “Did my mother explain?”

Johnny laughs nervously.

“I’m surprised Mummy told you,” I go on. “She hates talking about it.”

“She said you’re supposed to take it easy and remember things in your own time. All the aunties know,” says Mirren. “Granddad knows. The littles. The staff. Every single person on the island knows but Johnny, apparently.”

“I knew,” says Johnny. “I just didn’t know the whole picture.”

“Don’t be feeble,” says Mirren. “Now is really not the time.”

“It’s okay,” I say to Johnny. “You’re not feeble. You merely had a suboptimal moment. I’m sure you’ll be optimal from now on.”

“I’m always optimal,” says Johnny. “Just not the kind of optimal Mirren wants me to be.”

Gat smiles when I say the word suboptimal and pats my shoulder.

We have started over.