Nadine rubbed my back, the same way she used to when she would put me to sleep as a child. “You were her daughter, Jack. No one remembers her as well as you do.” She checked her watch. “Speaking of which, I promised everyone we would read the journal entries around eight. Are you coming down to listen?”
Every part of me wanted to remain rooted to my spot on the terrace. “Sure.”
I accompanied Nadine downstairs, but we parted on the first floor. She went to fetch the journal while I wrenched Evelyn away from a heated debate on the importance of women’s clubs in the male-dominated cricket world. Nadine, journal in hand, ascended to the third step of the staircase and cleared her throat. The room quieted.
“As you all know,” she began, cradling the journal to her chest, “we’re all here to celebrate the life of my best friend and mentor, Priya Pearson.”
A few people lifted their glasses or clapped politely.
“Priya was one of the funniest, kindest, and most intelligent people I have ever had the privilege of knowing,” Nadine went on. “When I first arrived at Oxford, I felt out of place. Imposter Syndrome might as well have beat me over the head.” A chuckle echoed through the crowd. “But I was lucky enough to have Priya, or Professor Pearson as I knew her back then, as my instructor for an introduction to anthropology class. As a fresher, I intended to study literature, but we all know how that turned out.”
I couldn’t help but grin as another laugh rang out. As a student, Nadine had had a bad habit of never finishing the assigned readings. She’d told me story after story of how her literature professors would scold her for lack of initiative. She almost dropped out of university.
“Thanks to Priya, I discovered a passion for anthropology,” Nadine went on. “I was lucky enough to earn a spot as Priya’s teaching assistant. That was when I truly began to know her. In the long hours after class, we graded papers, gossiped about the students, and shared our love of higher knowledge. I believe those conversations shaped me into the person I am today.”
Nadine’s expression grew serious, and all movement in the room ceased when she said, “Ten years ago, Priya was taken from us. We will never understand why such a senseless act of violence so upset our lives.”
Someone let out a small sob, and a spark of anger lit within me. Yes, these people had been acquainted with my mother. They spent a good deal of time with her, but did they truly know her well enough to warrant tears ten years later? I hadn’t simply lost a teacher or coworker; I had been robbed of a parent.
“Tonight we honor Priya’s memory,” Nadine said, sniffling as she opened the journal, “by sharing some of our favorite memories of her. I’ll start. The first time I met Professor Pearson…”
The stories floated through my head without much permanence. The anecdotes ranged from funny to profound to trivial. One woman remembered when my mother had loaned her a few pounds for lunch. Another recalled the time she and Mom had discovered an entire, intact skull during an archaeological dig in Greece. Trevor Quimby, who it turned out had studied under my mother, read aloud the comments Mom had written on a paper he’d cobbled together at the last minute.
“‘Weak thesis,’” he announced to the tittering crowd, holding the paper out so everyone could see the slew of red pen marks in the margins. “‘Few supporting details. Not enough research to back up your claims. Absolute swill.’”
The crowd roared at that, and Trevor blushed appropriately. As he stepped down, Nadine closed the journal with a sense of finality. Relief washed over me.
“Feel free to add more stories to the journal throughout the night,” Nadine said. “Tomorrow, Oxford is setting up a presentation in the anthropology department to honor Priya. The journal will be displayed there.”
A door creaked open overhead, and everyone’s eyes wandered upward toward the second floor. The master bedroom, which had been off-limits to guests, was now open. A tiny woman wrapped in a traditional sari emerged from the bedroom and approached the top of the staircase. She wobbled there, uncertain, as if waiting for an invitation to come down.
“Please join me in welcoming Deepali Pearson,” Nadine said hurriedly, sweeping her arm toward the woman. “She was gracious enough to let us use her home for the memorial tonight.”
As the woman descended the stairs with one trembling hand on the railing to steady herself, her deep brown eyes surveyed the guests. When she saw me, her gaze locked on to mine. My throat closed up, and my chest tightened.
Evelyn caught sight of my distorted face. She glanced back and forth between the woman on the stairs and me. “Pearson? Does that mean—?”
As the elderly woman reached the first floor, I rushed off, bumping my way through the other guests until I found the back exit. I made a run for it, my feet carrying me down to the river path without conscious thought. The wind tore through my hair and made my eyes water. I’d left my coat on one of the luxurious sofas inside, but I didn’t care. I had to get as far away from that house as possible.
I ran all the way home, or to the memory of home. My mother’s old house was still there, but it looked nothing like I remembered it. The new owners had gotten rid of the sturdy brick wall around the backyard and put up an ugly white fence. The yard was littered with annoyingly bright children’s toys in various states of disrepair. When I approached, a massive white dog burst from a hidden door and warned
