And then, as the weeks passed, a balance seemed to tip—perhaps because Rose, herself, had begun to lean in the direction of memory. Recollection overtook awareness. The past outran the present. Rose slipped into a montage of cross-faded scenes: again and again she visited certain moments, the echoes of which never seemed to fade—the phone call that her small fortune of blue-chip stock had vanished, as feared, in the Crash; the night she burst into the hospital room to find Alvie, his left leg hoisted with pulleys and wires, slap-happy with morphine and his brother nowhere to be found; the bleak December morning she reached down and found Baby Doris’s cheek cold as a lichen-crusted tombstone.

It wasn’t short for anything. I just liked the music—one of the first things Rina had shown me—so much that it had somehow led to a nickname and stuck. That was back before I could speak her language, or she mine, and translators were rather unreliable. In truth, it wasn’t even close to my real name. That wasn’t information I usually divulged, it generally wasn’t anything that anyone but my closest family members were supposed to know. But Rina loved these people and they had asked. So I answered.

It was the woman who spoke at Career Day her junior year who convinced Peggy she wanted to major in accounting. Megan Barnes in her conservative suit, shiny blond bob, discrete pearl earrings and sensible pumps positively glowed with poise and confidence. “There is always a place in our field for meticulous, detail-minded professionals,” Megan said, looking right at Peggy. “Everyone says accountants are boring but what’s wrong with being boring?”  

I had been moving towards androgyny as Fin was learning about gender. I told toddler them, “Sometimes I don’t feel like a girl, but I don’t really feel like a boy either.” I taught Fin to call me both Aunt and Uncle and sometimes, Uncle Auntie.

Katie Kalahan

In Ethics, I learned that criminals often feel compelled to confess to their crimes, and unconsciously do things that will get them caught. For instance, a murderer might call a family member of his victim, then hang up. I wanted to get caught when I walked into the living room with the dress bundled in my outstretched arms, but my mother was already at the door, and left without glancing back toward me. I needed a more drastic way to incriminate myself.

They drive up Chapman Avenue and then head into the canyons where the suburban landscape drops away, replaced with oaks and sycamores. The sky changes, too. The rain has stopped and bulky, post-rain clouds swim in blue. Two turkey vultures circle above the lake, which is a puddle of what it used to be—nearly all dried up from the drought. Penny feels the image in her gut as a kicking of nausea and unfulfilled nostalgia—she grew up in the canyons, Irvine Lake an old, familiar landmark. She has never seen the harsh sides of it so exposed and discolored, though. Rings of white and dirt, green and mud funnel above the little remaining water.

For a couple of years after the miscarriage, I would occasionally wonder if I should try to find a man who was free to really be with me and try to get pregnant again. Maybe I was making a grave mistake by not creating another person to guide me through my old age and death as I had done for my mother. But a fear of ending up alone has never struck me as adequate justification for marrying or reproducing. And my mother was alone, in the end, despite everything. Probably we all are, regardless of our most frantic efforts.  

Her voice was hoarse when she spoke, her eyes glassy.  Her words were a whisper on the air and if the rest of the world hadn’t fallen away, I wouldn’t have caught them. 

“Because I have no one else to talk to.”  

Aiden Ko