The Stories We Tell by Patti Callahan Henry Page A

defiance, in earnest.
    *   *   *
    I decorated the cottage years before Willa came to stay, and yet it looks as if I knew that one day she’d arrive. The walls are painted a dove gray over board and batten walls. The artwork is eclectic and scattered: a painting of an old circus tent I bought at an arts festival; multiple framed posters and sketches of the Fine Line, Ink work; black-and-white photos of my parents’ younger years. There’s one photo of Willa and me as youngsters, standing on top of a rock with our arms looped together. We are smiling in the photo, happy and free—all of life ahead of us.
    The kitchen is bright and painted white. The table is round and wooden. I found it in the barn and painted it with Gwen one summer afternoon. A multicolored glass chandelier dangles above the table like a discarded necklace. This space was fun to decorate, and now Willa adds her own style. Mismatched painted pottery plates are piled on open shelves around the room, most of which she found at flea markets. Linen napkins of every pattern spill from a wire basket. Music sheets and handwritten lyrics are piled in an old milk crate in the corner.
    At the table, I unwrap the day’s newspaper, spread it out, and flip through the pages, looking for the article Cameron mentioned. The story is buried in the last page of the “Metro” section.
    The man’s death is summarized in one paragraph, and I have the horrible thought that if Willa or Cooper died on that same street during the accident, they would have garnered more than a few sentences in the back section. The man was an African-American and obviously homeless. It appeared that he’d been in a fight and then crawled between houses, where he died of internal injuries.
    Willa enters the kitchen. “I forgot where the bathroom was.” Her voice shakes.
    â€œWhat?” I look up.
    â€œYou know how sometimes you have a really bad hangover and you can’t find your words, or a thought escapes, or you can’t remember where you are?”
    â€œSadly, yes.”
    She slumps into a chair and drops her face into her palms. “Well, it’s just like that, but a billion times worse. It took me way too long to remember where the bathroom was.” She looks up at me, her eyes red-rimmed. “In this house where I’ve lived for a year.”
    I close the newspaper and busy myself making two cups of tea, placing the macaroons on a pink plate. I sit next to my sister. “Maybe working with us again will help. You think you’re up for it?”
    â€œOf course.” She leans her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You know, while I was in the hospital, I had a ton of weird memories. It was like mud from the bottom of my life all stirred up. But I thought of Caden and how you two made up those commandments. How could I forget him?” Then she laughs again, but this time it has a more manic, high-pitched sound, and for a moment I think it’s the emotional lability hitting. “I guess right now that is the wrong question to ask.”
    â€œHuh?” I ask, confused.
    â€œ How could I forget ? That was the wrong thing to say.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I remembered so much about that time—you getting in trouble. Big, big trouble. Willa closes her eyes. “I wish that memory had been hit right out of my head.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    â€œI wonder what ever happened to Caden.” She closes her eyes, as if the answer is behind her eyelids. “He had those green eyes, and he always carried a baseball.”
    Maybe this is one of those times when the past is clearer than the present—another symptom. Willa can’t remember the bathroom location, but she remembers Caden’s eyes.
    â€œYes,” I say. “The last I heard about him, he’d married and moved to Seattle, as far away from the South as he possibly could.”
    â€œI was madly