What You Remember I Did by Janet Berliner, Janet & Tem Berliner

calm again, not hurrying, not talking, her mere presence intensely comforting to what she called a primal wound Nan wasn't sure existed.
    "Nanny!" Catherine sang out now, and then yodeled the name, playing with the echoes set up by the shower stall and the gushing water. " Oooh , Nanny, Nanny, Nanny-o!"
    Nan took a deep, shuddering breath. "Coming, Mother." She reached around the edge of the shower curtain and turned off the water. As briskly as possible, she dried, powdered, and gowned her mother's old but–she couldn't help noticing every time–still lovely body, and helped her with the rest of her bedtime ablutions.
    This was not something she dared discuss with Matt. She knew what his position would be. She was not ready to talk with any of her friends. It crossed her mind to call Tonya, who'd taken pains to assure her that after-hours calls were perfectly acceptable "at this stage in your recovery"; that seemed too much, however, almost like saying the awful thing had in fact happened.
    Pressed by an urgent need to talk to somebody, she carried the cordless phone into her bedroom and shut the door. She turned on background music as further insurance that her mother wouldn't overhear, and dialed Becca .
    "Sure," Becca said, through the inescapable din of her household. "I can talk. For a minute or two. What's up? Is Mom okay?"
    "She's fine. I'm not so fine."
    Becca muffled the receiver to yell at one of the kids and came back. "What's the matter, Nan?"
    Nan said in a rush, " Becca , did Mom ever do anything sexual to you? Or to any of us?"
    Her sister was silent for what seemed like a long time, as if actually considering the possibility or, worse yet, preparing to make a sordid confession of her own. But she just said, "Sorry, Nan, the dog threw up on the floor. What were you saying?"
    Nan posed the question again. It sounded silly now, outrageous, even to her own ears.
    Becca responded accordingly. "What in the world are you talking about? Mom? Are you crazy? Where'd you get a crazy idea like that? What do you–?"
    "Okay, okay, Becca , I got it. The answer is no. Which is what I think, too. But I've been having–memories. I guess they're memories."
    "What kinds of memories?"
    Saying such things to anyone other than her therapist would be awful, and in some strange way would feel like a betrayal of Tonya. But Becca was her sister, and maybe something had happened to her, too, and she'd repressed it, too, and talking about it could help. And it would be such a relief to tell her. Nan closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began with one of the easier ones. "After Daddy died she used to come and get me in the night and take me into bed with her." Becca didn't say anything. Nan ventured, "Did she do that to you, too?" and realized she was hoping, with equal fervor, that her sister would say yes and that she would say no.
    "God, Nan, she was lonely. Can you blame her? And it's not perverted to have your kids in your bed. Didn't Ashley ever come into your bed, when she'd had a nightmare or something? Our kids are in bed with us all the time, when they can't sleep or to watch cartoons on Saturday morning or just to snuggle. God, Nan."
    "She touched me between my legs," Nan said softly, hugging herself. "She–"
    "Hold on a minute." Becca put the receiver down with a clatter and went off to deal with some kid crisis. Nan sat curled up, eyes closed, trying–as Tonya had taught her–neither to lose herself in the visceral sensations nor to tamp them down. She heard children's voices rise and her sister's voice rise over them. The hubbub subsided and Becca came back to the phone, out of breath. "Sorry. Damn kids. What were you saying?"
    "Never mind." Nan consciously uncurled and relaxed her body. "I don't think I'm quite ready to talk about it. I just called you for a reality check. You don't remember anything–inappropriate happening when we were little? Sexually inappropriate?"
    The pause might