To Everyone Who Enjoys Ghost Stories.

One rainy Sunday in March, I opened a box of books Mom had brought from my grandmother’s house. Although Grandma had been dead for five years, no one had unpacked any of the boxes. They’d been sitting in the attic collecting dust, their contents a mystery.

Hoping to find something to read, I started pulling out books—Charlie In The Chocolate Factory, Misty of Chincoteague, and at least a dozen Nancy Drew mysteries. At thirteen, I’d long since outgrown Carolyn Keene’s plots, but I opened one at random, The Bungalow Mystery, and began flipping through the pages, laughing at the corny descriptions: “Nancy, blue eyed, and with dark hair and petite” The two girls were in a small motorboat on a lake, a storm was coming, and soon they’d be in trouble. Just as I was going to get interested in a plot, I turned a page and found a real life mystery: a torn photograph.

In faded shades of yellow and green, Mom’s older sister, Dulcie grinned into the camera, her teeth big in her narrow face, her hair a tangled mop of tawny curls. Next to her, Mom looked off to the side, her long straight hair drawn in a ponytail, eyes downcast, unsmiling, clearly unhappy. Dulcie was about eleven, I guessed, and Mom nine or ten. Behind the girls was water—a lake, I assumed.

Pressed against Dulcie’s other side, I could make out an arm, a shoulder, a few strands of long hair, just enough for me to tell it was a girl. The rest of her had been torn off. I turned the photo over, hoping to find the girl’s name written on the back. There was Grandmother’s neat, schoolteacherly handwriting: “Gull Cottage, 1953. Dulcie, Claire, and T--. Like her face, the rest of the girl’s name was torn out with her.

Alone in the attic, I stared at the girl’s arm and shoulder.  T… Tanya, Tonia, Traci, Terri. So many T names to choose from. Which was hers?

Putting the photo back in the book, I ran downstairs to ask Mom about Gull Cottage, the lake, and the girl. I found her in the kitchen chopping onions for the vegetable casserole she was fixing for dinner. Standing there, head down, she wore the same expression caught in the photograph. Not surprising. She always looked sad, even when she wasn’t. I waved the photograph. “Look what I found—a picture of you and Dulcie at a lake somewhere. And another girl.” Mom snatched the photograph, her face suddenly flushed. “Where did you get this?” She acted as if I’d been rummaging through her purse, her bureau drawers, the medicine cabinet, looking for secrets.

I backed away. Startled. “It fell out of your old book” I held up The Bungalow Mystery. “It was in one of those boxes you brought back from Grandmother’s house. Look, here your name.” I pointed to “Claire Thornton, 1953” written in a childish scrawl on the inside cover. Mom stared at the photograph as if I hadn’t spoken, “I was sure I’d thrown this away.” “Who’s the girl sitting by Dulcie?” I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity. “Me.”   Mom said without raising her eyes. “No, I mean on the other side, where its ripped.” I pointed. “See her arm and her shoulder? On the back Grandma wrote T, but the rest of her name is on the torn part.” “I don’t remember another girl.” Mom gripped the photo and shook her head. “At the lake it was only me and Dulcie. Nobody else.”

At that moment, Dad came in through the kitchen door and set a grocery bag on the counter. “Salad stuff,” he said. “They didn’t have fields greens, so I got baby spinach.”  “Fine,” Mom said. “What’re you looking at?” reaching over Mom’s shoulder, he took the photo. “Little Claire and little Dulcie.” He said with a smile. Mom reached for the photo, but Dad wasn’t finished with it. “This must’ve been taken in Maine,” he said. “Yes.” She reached for the photo again. “Hey look at this.” Dad handed her the photo, “There’s another girl sitting next to Dulcie. See her arm? Who was she?” “This picture was taken thirty years ago,” she said sharply. “I have no idea who that girl was.”

Why couldn't Mom remember who she was?!