“You said it was your fault.”
I rolled my eyes. “I was angry. This is a horrible mess. And somehow, it’s probably my fault. I’m the captain of this ship, and it’s my job to take responsibility for everything that happens here. So everything is my fault,” I said.
Sounded good, right?
Mom shook her head. “You have an overly developed sense of responsibility and protection for the salon. I’m afraid we need to talk about that.”
I blinked. “Oh Hell. Is this some kind of intervention?” I started to stand.
“Sit.” Mom said.
I froze and sat back down.
“Tell me, what is your oldest memory?”
“Me?” I asked.
“All of you girls.” She glanced at Audra. “You don’t have to answer, dear, but I’m sure you’ll find this interesting.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Audra said, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “I’ll just be over here, quiet as a mouse.”
“Girls, though, please. Answer me. What is your oldest memory?”
Autumn went first. “Hiding behind the herb garden, and you couldn’t find me.”
Mom smiled. “I remember that day.”
“I thought I was so clever,” Autumn said.
“And I thought you’d been taken, you’d just vanished.” Mom sipped on her tea. “At least, until you started giggling.”
“It took you forever to find me,” Autumn said.
“Well, once you giggled, I could see you. Or at least, your green dress. Then I knew, and I played along.”
I smiled, vaguely remembering Mom running around in a panic that day. “I was searching every nook I could get into, looking for you. Mom, you were so scared.”
She nodded. “I was that day. Afraid that someone had come and taken you. We hadn’t been in our house very long, then.” She gestured to Summer. “What about you? What do you remember?”
“I remember a field of grass and purple flowers. I brought you flowers.” Summer said, smiling wistfully.
Mom nodded. “You did that a lot at the commune.”
I smiled because I remembered that too. “You would get these big bundles of those weeds and bring them to Mom, telling her you’d brought her a great big bouquet.”
“I would put them in water for a day or two until they wilted, then we’d put them on the compost pile.”
“I sort of remember that? A funeral for the flowers or something?” Summer said.
Mom smirked. “Yes. We’d have a funeral for the flowers. Then you’d go get me more, and we’d do it again in a few days.” Then Mom looked at me. “What about you, Winter? What do you remember?”
“The commune was big. At least it seemed big. There were lots of people there. Everyone was nice,” I said, remembering the feel of the place. “People danced and sang and laughed. It was a nice place to be.”
“It was.”
“And then we had to leave,” I said. “Suddenly.”
Mom nodded. “Do you remember why?”
