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the table as she launched into a diatribe about how abortion was murderous and a waste of human life. How someone could even argue for abortion in the court of law was beyond her. Daddy and I knew better than to get her started on Vietnam, which, coincidentally, was also murderous and a waste of human life. She left no room for differing opinions, just silent nods from her lowly constituents. And she never liked to dwell on the good things going on in the world, like the Winter Olympics in Sapporo or Apollo 16. With Mom, it was always grievances about our country’s moral bankruptcy.
    I wash my bowl in the sink, set it in the drying rack, and then climb the stairs to my old room, where I’m greeted by paisley wallpaper and a leftover trace of patchouli. I change into my pajamas and crawl under the covers, but I can’t sleep. Thoughts of Paul pull me toward the future, while memories of Emily hold me back. I trace constellations in the glow-in-the-dark stars that I stuck on my ceiling when I was thirteen. I roll from side to side until the arms on my Mickey Mouse alarm clock point to the two and the three.
    I throw off my blankets, flip on the lights, and pace across the room. I stop in front of my old bookshelf; it’s different from how I left it when I moved out. My thick child psychology texts have been replaced by kindergarten finger paintings, and books of piano music stand where my record collection used to be. The gold medal I won at my fifth grade spelling bee hangs from the plaque I received for getting straight A’s all three years of junior high. This bookcase is like a shrine to my childhood. I sit down in front of it and pick up a seashell picture frame that holds a photo of the three of us at the shore. I’m sitting on Mom’s lap wearing a floppy pink hat, and she’s wearing a satisfied smile that only an afternoon of splashing in the waves and building sandcastles could produce. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her.
    Next to it is the porcelain grand piano music box that Daddy gave me after my first recital. He always loved to listen to me play. I open the lid, and a few notes of “Fur Elise” escape. Resting in its pink velvet lining is one half of the gold ‘best friends’ necklace that I bought in fifth grade. I gave the other half to Angela McCoole because she was the closest thing I had to a best friend, and I wanted all the other girls who were vying for her attention to know that she was mine. The small gold half-heart twists and turns at the end of the chain. I study its fractured edge, remembering the rumors she spread after my parents sent me off to the maternity home. Mom told everyone I was accepted into a program for gifted students, but Angela knew the truth. When I returned to school that fall, she had a new best friend, and whispers followed me through the hallways.
    I drop the necklace back in the jewelry box and close the lid. I slide it back into its place next to a small pair of faded pink satin ballet slippers, a Brownie sash full of badges, and red and blue pom-poms. But all of the photos and relics stop at tenth grade. It’s almost as if the little girl who used to live here died. I suppose in many ways she did.
    I peel myself off the floor and open my closet door. I half expect to find it bursting with ballet leotards and Girl Scout uniforms, but all I find is a row of empty metal hangers. On the shelf above is a worn-out cardboard box that sits like a lump with its sides bulging. I pull it down and kneel before it. When I lift the flaps, Jim Morrison’s face and shirtless chest greets me. I unfold the poster and spread it across the floor. Angela and I hung these posters in our rooms after Jim turned up dead in his bathtub. Mom hated it and said it represented everything that was wrong with my generation.
    Underneath the poster is a bottle of tequila tucked alongside a stack of old records. I lift the half-empty bottle of Jose Cuervo and giggle at the thought of Mom