Tempted by Megan Hart Page B

the sofa and puzzle pieces littering the floor, I wasn’t at first surprised. When we went to the kitchen and dirty dishes were piled in the sink and crumbs scattered the counter, I stopped to take a second look.
    “I hope you brought the pictures,” Patricia said from behind me. She grabbed a full mug of coffee from next to the pot and sat at the kitchen table. More crumbs there, and she barely paid them a glance. From upstairs I heard the sound of pounding feet and some shouts as the kids played.
    “I did.” I held up the envelope and took the seat across from her. “I brought some really good ones.”
    Patricia took the envelope and shook out the photos. She sifted through them, sorting them by size. I watched her efficiency and wondered if her natural sense of organization had made her a good mother, or if having children had fostered her managerial skills. I tried to remember if she’d always been so naturally precise, but I couldn’t.
    “Pats,” I said. “Do you ever try to think about stuff from when we were kids and can’t?”
    “Like what?” She picked up a picture of the two of us as toddlers, dressed in identical yellow sunsuits. “I remember those outfits.”
    “Do you remember them because of seeing this picture, or do you really remember?”
    She looked at me. “Both? I don’t know. Why?”
    I reached for some of the pictures. One of my parents at a party, both with cigarettes, my dad with a tall glass of amber liquid. One of Claire as a baby, the three of us clustered around her bassinet staring at her like she was a prize. I was eight in the picture. I remembered things from when I was eight, but I didn’t remember this moment that had been captured forever by a camera.
    “I don’t know. Just thinking.”
    “Well,” my sister said tersely, “I don’t know why you’d want to.”
    She snapped a couple of photos down in a row, like she was laying out cards.
    “Pats,” I said gently, waiting until she looked at me before I continued. “Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine. Why?”
    I looked around the kitchen. “You seem a little tense, that’s all.”
    Her gaze followed mine. “Yeah. Well. Sorry about the mess. I fired the maid.”
    I waited for her to laugh, but she didn’t. “It’s not a mess.”
    Not compared to my house, anyway, which didn’t even have the excuse of children. Certainly not compared to the house in which we’d grown up, where chaos had reigned on a daily basis. Faced with too many choices, my mother often chose none. The result had been a lot of half-finished chores. I was in college before I figured out that if you fold your laundry right out of the dryer instead of leaving it in the basket for a week, you don’t have to wear wrinkled shirts.
    “Let’s take these upstairs to the spare room. I’ve got all the stickers and stuff up there.”
    Upstairs, I heard the mutter of cartoons and peeked my head into the bonus room above the garage. Tristan and Callie sprawled in beanbag chairs, their eyes glued to the television. I heard a familiar theme song.
    “Hey, Scooby Doo,” I said from the doorway.
    Two small faces turned to me. “Aunt Anne!”
    Tristan, six, leaped to his feet and ran to hug me. His sister, older by two years, was slower about her affection. She was growing up, getting too cool for hugs.
    “What are you doing here?” Tristan clung to me like a barnacle and lifted his legs so I was forced to pick him up or fall over.
    “I came to work on some things with your mom. Why aren’t you guys outside?” I said, before releasing Tristan.
    “It’s too hot and Mommy said we could watch TV.” Callie had shot up another inch since the last time I’d seen her. Now her head reached my shoulder.
    I might have trouble remembering some things from my childhood, but I had no trouble remembering the first time I’d held my niece in my arms. I’d been the one to drive Patricia to the hospital when her water broke in the middle of mopping her