“I told her about the first time you took her to a real salon.”
Stephanie looked away.
“What about it?”
“The little salon. How scared she was they’d cut too much off.”
I’d taken Bev when she was seven. She giggled through the shampoo, then admired herself in every window over ice cream.
I’d gone home and told Stephanie everything.
“You told Terry you were there?”
“What about it?”
Stephanie lowered her eyes.
“Yes.”
“And that her whole face lit up?”
She nodded.
Those had been my words.
She hadn’t just been pretending to be Bev’s mother. She’d been putting herself inside my memories.
“Yes.”
“How many did you give her?”
“A lot.”
“Why?”
“I needed the stories to sound real.”
“They sounded real because they were mine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I needed the stories to sound real.”
“Why my bedroom? Why my necklace? Why my memories?”
Her eyes snapped up.
I held out my hand.
“Give me your phone.”
“Anna, please.”
“You don’t owe me your phone. But if you want me to believe anything after tonight, you don’t get to choose which truth I’m allowed to hear.”
“Why my necklace? Why my memories?”
Stephanie stared at me, then unlocked it and handed it over.
