Book 2: Something About Mary

Isla

Ginger.

The story of my cat gave me pause to think about everything that I’d learned about myself. I distinctly remembered that cat now that my parents had reminded me. I didn’t have many memories at all from my childhood, and most of the ones I did have were vague. A flicker of a face, laughing on a swing, standing outside and staring up at a large tree, opening a present. Those types of memories didn’t give me much context for where I was, who I was, or what I was doing.

But seeing this picture had jarred memories in me that hadn’t entered my mind for so long. They were still there, though. I remembered the cat. I remembered playing with her, how sweet she was, how her fur felt beneath my fingers.

I didn’t remember her dying, though. And I certainly didn’t remember her coming back to life.

“After that,” Mom continues, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “After that, everything sort of fell apart.”

My dad reaches over