Downstairs with Laurie before she left for work in the morning, asking me what I’d like for my birthday, which was just around the corner.
Remember my third birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese? I asked.
Yes, Jenny . . . , Laurie said.
Remember how Dad kept playing Skee-Ball again and again, just so he could get me the cutest stuffed animal in the place?
Yes, Jenny.
That’s how I got Goldy, right?
Yes, Jenny.
Later that night, watching Vanderpump in my bedroom—and Laurie coming in to ask about dinner. And me casually mentioning that pony ride I saw in the photo album, the picture of me—not me—of Jenny, being led around a dirt ring in a neon pink cowboy hat.
I just remembered something, Mom. That pony ride when I was a kid. I asked you if we could take the pony home with us, remember? I wouldn’t stop crying about it, I think I drove you crazy—so you stopped on the way home and THAT’s when you bought me Goldy.
I think you’re right, Jenny . . . Yes, now that I think about it I think that was when I got you Goldy . . . Now, how did I manage to forget that?
Good question.
Something was happening here.
Another thing that should’ve made it into my comic—stuff reversing itself the way things do on the planet Bizarro. No longer Mr. Greer and Mrs. Charnow and Lars sniffing something foul and starting to dig around to see where the odor was coming from.
I was doing the sniffing this time.
I’d always known when it was starting. Sometimes the funny faces wouldn’t register on my radar, but the funny questions would. Innocent sounding at first, if you were willing to ignore they were coming out of left field. Mrs. Charnow suddenly bringing up my first Halloween costume even though it wasn’t close to Halloween—Remember what you dressed up as? Mr. Greer staring at the floor and plucking a memory out of thin air—the first time he’d taken me fishing on Lake Winowee. Remember how many fish you caught, honey? I didn’t remember how many fish I’d caught, it was so long ago, I was barely five, and they’d say of course, don’t worry about it. But that’s exactly what I’d start doing, worrying—because I knew more questions were coming, and more after that, insistent-sounding questions, with Mrs. Charnow and Mr. Greer and Lars becoming more and more insistent that I answer them.
I didn’t know when Jenny had gotten Goldy.
I didn’t.
Odds were good it wasn’t after that pony ride.
I’d made it up. About me crying. About me asking for a real pony. About everything.
My third birthday party was at Chuck E. Cheese. According to Ben’s memorial page it was. I’d invented Dad playing endless games of Skee-Ball there.
Remember the day stupid Ben . . .
I was thinking about that time . . .
I’ll never forget the time Mrs. Colletti sent me home with . . .
Maybe she’s confused. Maybe she’s just not remembering correctly. Maybe she has her head up her ass. Maybe she is remembering correctly, but she doesn’t want me to know that I’m not.
Maybe she didn’t really lie to Becky.
On the way to D’Agostino’s to shop for groceries, I told her I’d been thinking about the summer we all went to Montauk to go digging for clams.
That was on Ben’s page too. The family going to Montauk and digging for clams. And playing miniature golf. And going whale watching. All right there on Ben’s page.
And all taking place after Jenny was kidnapped.
A stupid-as-shit effort to keep their minds off it—those were Ben’s words—stupid-as-shit, picking a place Jenny had never been to, instead of heading up to the lake, which is what the Kristals usually did in the summer, back when they were still the Kristals. Not wanting to be where Jenny and her brother played Indians, fished for minnows, and roasted marshmallows because the idea was to stop thinking about her and not be reminded of their missing daughter every minute of their entire fucking vacation.
So they went to Montauk and went clam digging.
A whole year after Jenny disappeared. Ben already licking the wounds on his burned hand. Jenny already on her way to the cold case file.
Laurie said: We’re five minutes away.
Remind me to pick up pears for Dad.
Do you like Dolly Madison ice cream?
Dad showed us all how to shuck the clams there, I told her. In Montauk. You made spaghetti and clam sauce with them. Isn’t it amazing I can remember that?
Her hands blanched white around the steering wheel. The blood had run right out of them.
Yes, Jenny, she said. Yes . . . it sure is.
She knows.