What We Remember. Michael Thomas Ford

right,” Ada replied.

      She was lying as badly as A.J. was, and both of them knew it. Yet neither would admit their falsehoods. A.J. knew as well as Ada did that Dan McCloud wouldn’t just run off anywhere. The two men had been best friends since childhood, so close that Ada often wondered if there were things about her husband that only A.J. Derry would ever know.

      “Don’t worry, Ada,” A.J. said. “And call me as soon as you hear from him.”

      “Same to you,” said Ada.

      She hung up and turned her attention back to the potatoes waiting on the counter. As she ran the peeler over the brown skin and watched it fall in strips into the sink, she tried to focus her thoughts on preparing dinner for her family. The water was on the stove, lightly salted and simmering. She would quarter the potatoes, put them into the pot, and bring the water to a boil. She would cook them until they were fork tender, drain them, and cube them before adding the milk and butter and mashing them, just as her mother had taught her. She would place them in the same bowl her mother had used, the one with the yellow and blue flowers.

      She thought about how often this ritual had been repeated, how many times she had cooked dinner for her husband and children. She’d been married for nineteen years, twenty in October. That added up to thousands of meals. Yet as she drew the peeler over the potato in her hand she felt as if she were doing it for the first time. Her fingers trembled. The peeler slipped, and drops of red appeared on the white surface of the potato.

      She turned on the water and ran it until it was ice cold before sticking her finger into the stream. It quickly had the desired numbing effect, yet she held her hand steady for a while longer, until she felt nothing.

      She turned the water off and patted her hand dry with the dishtowel. She considered finding a bandage, but the cut was a minor one and had already stopped bleeding. Besides, she reminded herself, she had mother’s hands. It was a term coined by her own mother to describe the tolerance to discomfort built up by any woman who spent years cooking for a family. Ada smiled to herself. It was true; it would take much more than a little cut to make her complain. The kids were always remarking on how she could immerse her hands in dishwater so hot it turned her skin the color of a boiled lobster. Even Dan—big, macho Dan—winced when he tried to help her with the after-dinner cleanup.

      At the thought of Dan her smile disappeared and she was once more consumed with worry. Her husband had left the house two days earlier, presumably to go to work, but had neither come home nor contacted Ada. It was unlike him. Dan McCloud was a man who liked order. He had a fondness for watches and clocks, was always on time and always making lists of things to be done. He was not someone who just failed to come home.

      Ada knew that Dan could take care of himself. He was, after all, the town’s sheriff. In addition to knowing how to use the gun he carried, Dan had a cool head. He would never rush into anything without thinking his way all around it first and figuring out at least three ways to extricate himself should things go badly. His wife had never seen him panic, and despite the dangers that came with his profession she had seldom worried over him.

      But somehow this felt different.

      The children, she was only somewhat surprised to see, had not really noticed their father’s absence. Now that they were all three teenagers they had their own lives, which intersected with those of their parents only occasionally. Because of Dan’s job they had never been a family that sat down to breakfast and dinner together religiously. The fact that Dan had not made an appearance at the supper table the night before was not unusual, and Ada had answered the questions regarding his whereabouts by explaining that Dan was working.

      Another day, however, and she would have to answer them truthfully. What would she say then? How do you tell your children that their father is gone but you don’t know to where? She couldn’t claim he was on a business trip, or taking care of some emergency out of town. They would know she was lying. Which left her with only one option: to tell them the truth. Only she didn’t know what the truth was.

      The banging of the kitchen door startled her. She turned to see her youngest son, Billy, entering. Billy had recently turned thirteen, officially making her and Dan the parents of three teenagers. Although she admitted to no favorites among her children, as the baby Billy occupied a place in her heart perhaps a step or two above those of his brother and sister. James, who at sixteen was a younger version of his father, had the McCloud look about him, with dark hair and stormy eyes. Her oldest, Celeste, favored her, being tall and thin, her hair a deep red and her skin the pale, freckled cream that burned easily and never tanned.

      But Billy was the perfect mingling of Ada and Dan, proof of their union in physical form. Slighter than his brother, he was graceful without being delicate. His face was less handsome than James’s, but arguably more beautiful. His green eyes sparkled when he laughed, and of all the children he was the one most likely to make Ada smile. Even now, in the midst of worry, his appearance was reassuring. There was, she thought, no question of Dan’s safety when such a child was waiting for him to come home.

      “The mail came,” Billy said. He dropped it on the counter and sniffed the air. “Roast beef?” he asked.

      Ada nodded. “It’ll be ready in about half an hour,” she told her son. “Go wash up.”

      Billy left, and Ada finished peeling the potatoes and cutting them into chunks. Dropping them into the now-steaming water, she turned up the flame beneath the pot. Dinner preparations completed, she picked up the mail. She took it to the table, sat down, and leafed through it. She took time to peruse the circular from Penney’s and to examine the weekly grocery specials, tearing out the 2-for-1 coupon for the brand of peanut butter Dan liked. She discarded several pieces of junk mail from various organizations wanting money, and read with only slight interest a bulletin from the church the family nominally attended but to which they hadn’t actively gone in a long while.

      Maybe we’ll go this Sunday, she thought. It might be good for the kids.

      The last piece of mail was a plain white envelope. It was addressed to her. Instinctively she looked to the upper left corner for a return address, but found none. The postmark was dated the previous day. Who, she wondered, had sent her a letter? She slid her finger beneath the lip of the envelope and opened it. Removing a single sheet of paper, she began to read.

      CHAPTER 3

      1991

      “Billy, eat your eggs.”

      Billy poked at the plate of scrambled eggs, then set the fork down and pushed the plate away from him. He took a spoonful of sugar from the bowl on the table and added it to the coffee in his mug. Stirring it, he tried to pretend he was somewhere else.

      “Billy,” his mother said again. “You already put four spoonfuls in that coffee. That’s enough.”

      “I’m not a kid, Mom,” he snapped. “For fuck’s sake, I’m twenty-one years old.”

      “Don’t swear,” said Ada. “Not in my house.”

      “Mom, are you okay?”

      Billy looked across the table at his sister. Celeste was sitting beside her husband, Nate. The two of them were ignoring him—had been ignoring him ever since their arrival half an hour ago.

      “I’ll make some more eggs,” Ada said, starting to get up.

      “Ada,” said Nate. “Sit down. Please.”

      Ada paused, then returned to her chair. Of course she listens to Nate, Billy thought. His head hurt. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he sought the little plastic bag he recalled putting there the night before. It wasn’t there. Fuck me, he thought.

      “I know this is hard for you to hear.” Nate’s voice droned in Billy’s ears. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out. He wanted to sleep. If he could only sleep, he’d feel better. He hadn’t been to bed in days. How many? He tried to count backward but couldn’t remember if it was Wednesday or only Tuesday. That made a difference.

      “You