“What brings you to prison?” Annie asked once Tara had left us alone.
“Tax evasion,” I replied smoothly. Elkins was always “prison” on Annie’s bad days. “What about you?”
She laughed, and I glanced around her room, so sparsely decorated compared to her previous homes. There was one oil painting above her bed—of a woman standing in a meadow, her face obscured by a straw hat and yellow skirt blowing in the breeze—but the rest of her impressive art collection was split between my house and her storage unit. Some family photos sat on her windowsill, and there was a world map hung over her nondescript wood dresser. Blue pins were scattered across it. My dad had the map framed as a shadowbox for Annie’s birthday.
“Do you like to travel?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” Annie visibly brightened. “Very much so.” She pointed to the map. “Each one of those pins is a trip I took.”
I smiled to myself. Travel was always a safe, reliable topic with Annie. She might not be able to remember me, but her decades of globe-trotting? Always.
They were carved so deeply into her brain that dementia had nothing on them. Not once had she ever been at a loss for words when I asked about her adventures. One of my favorites was the six-week cruise she took to Australia before theQueen Elizabeth 2ocean liner had retired. When I was little, I remembered Pops telling me he had to markforty-twodays off the calendar before she returned home. As a kid, that sounded like an eternity. “Why didn’t you go with her?” I’d asked him, to which he replied, “Someone had to feed the cat!”
I’d been ten when I found out about my grandfather’s anxiety; even on medication, he could not fathom going anywhere beyond state lines. But he and Annie had meticulously planned all her amazing adventures together before she went on them with her best friend.
“What was your favorite trip?” I asked now, knowing the real answer was Milan. There was no better place to shop than the Via Montenapoleone.
“Oh, there are so many,” she said excitedly. “Not to mention, my dear friend Kathy and I have been recently talking about going back to Milan next year…”
I nodded along, even though Kathy had died of pancreatic cancer three years ago. Her funeral had been one of Annie’s final public outings.
“…but Martha’s Vineyard has a special place in my heart.”
Huh?I thought, her words sounding like a sudden record scratch. Martha’s Vineyard? When had Annie gone to Martha’s Vineyard?
If she’d been herself, I would’ve thought she was kidding. Because ever since getting the invitation in the mail, I’d told her how much I didn’t want to go to Camp Carmichael.
But right now, Annie wasn’t herself.
I squinted at her map, even though I was far from close enough to spot a pin off the coast of Massachusetts. Over the years, I’d heard all the stories behind her pins.
“How old were you?” I asked, half-confused, half-intrigued. “When you went?”
“Oh, I must’ve been—”
My phone chiming in my tote bag cut her off.Shit, I worried as I started digging around for it. For whatever reason, ringtones irritated Annie.
Her brows furrowed. “What is that dreadful sound?”
“Just my phone,” I told her, and pulled out my iPhone to see Erica was calling me. I sent her to voicemail before switching my phone to vibrate. “I’m sorry.”
She pursed her lips.
“Martha’s Vineyard?” I prompted.
“Yes, I visited several summers.”
“With your parents?” I tried. Maybe it had been a family vacation spot. Besides hearing aboutMotherandDaddyas people, Annie hadn’t told me much about her childhood.
Annie shook her head. “No, I first went with Kathy, and then…”
I felt my phone start vibrating on my lap.
Erica, the screen read.
Ignore!
“With Chris,” Annie answered, smiling fondly into the distance.
