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handed me her Pug’s leash, bent down, and let the spider crawl onto her hand, my stomach cinched up. She examined it under the light from her head lamp, let it crawl from hand to hand, the mother lumbering under the weight of dozens of perfectly formed babies. I watched Gemma-Kate’s face as she did this, her focused stillness broken only by the throb of a rapid pulse under her jaw, and I thought she liked that I was watching her. Here is Gemma-Kate doing something that fascinates and perhaps even appalls tough Aunt Brigid.
    Then Gemma-Kate set the spider down.
    I thought about Marylin again and, as happens with someone who has seen too much dying, something bloomed inside me that wanted that grotesque spider mom to live. Gemma-Kate and I both watched the spider some more. Then she lifted her foot. Did she lift her foot or am I not remembering well, after all that happened? Did she pause, and glance in my direction to see me watching her, and only then put her foot down again, well away from the spider? Did she wonder what it would look like if all those sparkles burst over the sidewalk like tiny fireworks?
    No. I was the one thinking that.
    Someone has said that we don’t remember events; rather, our memory creates them. Sometimes you don’t know whether you’re remembering a truth or a lie.

 
    Five
    The next night, Mallory dropped Gemma-Kate off at the church and brought her home as promised, pulling out of the driveway with a wave. I asked Gemma-Kate how she had enjoyed it.
    “It was a church group, and there were only five of us,” she said, while fixing a cup of tea in the microwave. “We played Ping-Pong because it was too cloudy for telescopes. I thought I might die.” But then she admitted with a trace of reluctance, “There was one kid there who was my age. It was pretty cool because his dad is a cop, too.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Peter something. Do you know him?”
    “I don’t know a lot of people at the church.”
    “We might hang out.”
    “Is that anything like hooking up? I get confused by the lingo.”
    “You’re kidding me, right?”
    “Yeah, I’m kidding.”
    Sure enough, a couple evenings after that, the doorbell rang about six. When I opened it I saw a boy standing on the other side of the screen door. He scratched his side without speaking, and I prepared to hear how he was selling candles for the sake of a teenage group home. I glanced down to make sure the screen door was locked.
    “May I help you?” I said.
    Gemma-Kate came up behind me. “Do I need a flashlight?” she asked.
    “I’ve got two,” he said.
    “Excuse me,” I said.
    “I’m sorry, Aunt Brigid. This is Peter.”
    “Hey,” said Peter, lifting two fingers but not his eyes from where they were fixed somewhere around my right shoulder. He was one of those people I think of as a Neither. That is to say, neither tall nor short, neither light nor dark. Neither smiling nor scowling. I imagined if I spoke to him I’d find him neither sociable nor un. Totally unnoticeable until the moment you see his mug shot. No, now I’m being cynical.
    “Peter. From church?” I asked with exaggerated ignorance.
    With Peter left standing on the other side of the door, Gemma-Kate said, “I should have said something. I’m sorry, Aunt Brigid, I got so used to being independent at home I didn’t think to tell you in advance.”
    How polite she was. I unlocked the screen door and opened it, and said with what I hoped was a tone of mild curiosity, “Where you guys going?”
    Peter finally spoke, more courteous and articulate than my first impression of him had allowed. “There’s an evening hike in Sabino Canyon to see the night-blooming cactus and the wildlife. A park guide goes along. I told Gemma-Kate it’s a good way to get to know the area. With the drive over and back we should be gone just a few hours. We’ll stop at Eegee’s for sandwiches.”
    “Sounds like fun. Can I see your license?”
    Gemma-Kate