Page 55 of We Were Liars

THAT NIGHT I wake, cold. I’ve kicked my blankets off and the window is open. I sit up too fast and my head spins.

A memory.

Aunt Carrie, crying. Bent over with snot running down her face, not even bothering to wipe it off. She’s doubled over, she’s shaking, she might throw up. It’s dark out, and she’s wearing a white cotton blouse with a wind jacket over it—Johnny’s blue-checked one.

Why is she wearing Johnny’s wind jacket?

Why is she so sad?

I get up and find a sweatshirt and shoes. I grab a flashlight and head to Cuddledown. The great room is empty and lit by moonlight. Bottles litter the kitchen counter. Someone left a sliced apple out and it’s browning. I can smell it.

Mirren is here. I didn’t see her before. She’s tucked beneath a striped afghan, leaning against the couch.

“You’re up,” she whispers.

“I came looking for you.”

“How come?”

“I had this memory. Aunt Carrie was crying. She was wearing Johnny’s coat. Do you remember Carrie crying?”

“Sometimes.”

“But summer fifteen, when she had that short haircut?”

“No,” says Mirren.

“How come you’re not asleep?” I ask.

Mirren shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

I sit down. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“I need you to tell me what happened before my accident. And after. You always say nothing important—but something must have happened to me besides hitting my head during a nighttime swim.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“Penny said the doctors want it left alone. You’ll remember in your own time and no one should push it on you.”

“But I am asking, Mirren. I need to know.”

She puts her head down on her knees. Thinking. “What is your best guess?” she finally says.

“I—I suppose I was the victim of something.” It is hard to say these words. “I suppose that I was raped or attacked or some godforsaken something. That’s the kind of thing that makes people have amnesia, isn’t it?”

Mirren rubs her lips. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she says.

“Tell me what happened,” I say.

“It was a messed-up summer.”

“How so?”

“That’s all I can say, my darling Cady.”

“Why won’t you ever leave Cuddledown?” I ask suddenly.

“You hardly ever leave except to go to the tiny beach.”

“I went kayaking today,” she says.

“But you got sick. Do you have that fear?” I ask. “That fear of going out? Agoraphobia?”

“I don’t feel well, Cady,” says Mirren, defensive. “I am cold all the time, I can’t stop shivering. My throat is raw. If you felt this way, you wouldn’t go out, either.”

I feel worse than that all the time, but for once I don’t mention my headaches. “We should tell Bess, then. Take you to the doctor.”

Mirren shakes her head. “It’s just a stupid cold I can’t shake. I’m being a baby about it. Will you get me a ginger ale?”

I cannot argue anymore. I get her a ginger ale and we turn on the television.