“This is a memorial?” Evelyn muttered in my ear. “I’ve never partied this hard for someone who was still alive.”
I elbowed her to be quiet as Nadine descended the stairs and came over to us. “I’m so glad you came!” she said, hugging us both at the same time. “Evelyn, right? It’s nice to see you again. Did anyone show you the gift yet?”
“No, sorry. What gift?”
With a guiding hand at the small of my back, Nadine led me to a small table. My heart skipped when I saw the tasteful picture of my mother printed and framed upon it. She wore her favorite jacket, the one with the elbow patches, the one she always said made her feel like a distinguished lecturer who should be smoking tobacco out of a pipe. Next to the picture was a beautiful, leather-bound journal.
“Is that my mother’s?” I asked, shaking.
“No, no, just the same brand she favored taking her notes in,” Nadine assured me. “I asked everyone to write something memorable about Priya. We’re going to read them aloud in a few hours. Would you care to add something?”
My mother—bleeding out in the grass as a faceless man stabbed her over and over—flashed in my head. “Maybe later,” I told Nadine.
Nadine, sensing my hesitation, moved on quickly. “You likely know most of the people here. Feel free to roam around. Everything but the big bedroom upstairs is available to guests. Get yourselves a drink or two. It’s an open bar.”
“Is this your house?” Evelyn butted in before Nadine slipped away.
Nadine’s gaze flickered toward me. “Ah, it is not. The owner lent it to me for the evening. Whether she joins us tonight is up to her.”
“That was weird,” Evelyn muttered as Nadine disappeared into the crowd. She straightened up and looked over the heads of the other guests. “Well, is it true? Do you know everyone here?”
I scanned the room and scoffed. “Not a chance. I don’t see a single person who—”
“Jacqueline Frye, is that you?” A woman my age—petite and blonde with eye sockets so wide you could see the whites around her irises—turned me to face her. She squealed with delight and hugged me. “It is you! I haven’t seen you in years?”
“Poppy?” I asked, drawing back to get another look at her. “Wow, hi! God, how long has it been?”
Poppy counted on her fingers. “Thirteen years or so? And Evelyn!”
Evelyn let out an involuntary grunt as Poppy squeezed her too tightly for comfort. “Sorry, do I know you?”
“Maybe you don’t remember,” Poppy said. “My mum and Jack’s were close friends. They dragged us to all the meetings and parties with the other professors. You tagged along with Jack occasionally. I could never forget you because you’re so tall!”
“I remember the boring parties,” Evelyn said.
Poppy laughed, unfazed. “I’ll get drinks. What would you like?”
“Water,” Evelyn said.
“Whiskey,” I added.
As Poppy bounced off, Evelyn muttered, “I have no memory of that woman.”
Suddenly, familiar faces started popping out of the crowd at me. It was as if seeing Poppy had unlocked the part of my memory that contained all the people from my life as an Oxford scholar’s daughter. I spotted long-lost childhood friends, several of my mother’s colleagues, and a few of her mentors, who had since retired from the academic world.
Poppy returned with drinks and a plate of cheese and crackers for the three of us to share. Evelyn inhaled most of them and went off in search of more. That left me alone with Poppy to reunite with people who hadn’t seen me since I was sixteen or younger.
Professor Edith Parnell burst into tears when she saw me. Like Priya, she had been tasked with watching over me when my mother was too busy. More than once, I sat in on her philosophy lectures. I didn’t understand a word of them until later in life. Edith was almost like a grandmother to me.
“You look so much like Priya,” she said, dabbing her tears with a cocktail napkin. “Such a tragedy we lost both of you.”
“I’m still alive,” I reminded her shortly.
“Yes, but you went off to the States, love.”
A few minutes later, a handsome man in a suit and tie approached me. He claimed to be Trevor Quimby, though the Trevor Quimby I remembered from horseback riding lessons had protruding front teeth and rounded shoulders, and was dead terrified of the animals we were meant to be controlling.
“I gave up horseback riding,” he told me, chuckling, when I mentioned this. “Gained a bit of weight and switched to cricket.”
Evelyn, who’d returned from her quest for cheese and crackers, jumped in then, eager to discuss sport rather than academics. I used her broad shoulders to ward off the attention of another well-meaning past acquaintance and escaped up the stairs and onto the back terrace. Most guests had gone inside to avoid the chill. I leaned over the balcony with a fresh glass of whiskey and let the cool breeze from the river sweep the heat of social obligation away from my person.
Someone draped my coat across my shoulders. Nadine, who somehow kept her boot heels from clicking loudly across the rooftop, leaned next to me. She faced away from the river, studying me instead.
“Doing all right so far?” she asked gently.
“I suppose.”
“I planned this get-together ages ago,” she said. “I had no idea you were going to be in town. I hope you haven’t been bombarded with bad memories.”
I watched my cube
