Page 101 of Head Under Water

There are photos of the three of us as kids running through the sprinkler, Will crying because Cory shoved him down, every combination of our moms throughout the day—Ruth and Margie, Mom and Ruth, Margie and Mom—holding beach towels in the background, lost in conversation. I can almost hear it—the happy shrieks, the steady stream of water, the dull thrum of our mothers’ laughter.

On the next page, it’s Halloween, and we’re standing on Ruth’s porch. She was always the one who decorated for Halloween, her favorite holiday.

I’m dressed in a homemade bumblebee costume, the stripes a little crooked. Will’s wearing a hand-me-down Superman costume, and Cory’s brown cowboy hat leans too far to the side.

There are two pages of one of our many lake trips. Mom in cutoff shorts, legs dangling over the water. Ruth squinting into the sun. Me lying between Margie and Ruth, trying to sunbathe in my little one-piece and straw hat. Will standing next to Mom, holding the tiniest fish on a little string. Margie mid-cannonball.

With the turn of a few more pages, I reach a group of first day of school photos—Kindergarten for Will and me. We’re all wearing oversized backpacks and our newest clothes, hair freshly trimmed. I remember those bangs and how Will teased me over them for the longest time. Cory is scowling, older, wiser, and annoyed. In one photo, Mom adjusts the collar of my little plaid dress and, in another, she ties Will’s shoes. I remember those. They lit up when he ran.

“You guys missed the bus that day,” Mom says, so softly it’s almost a whisper. “Ruth kept insisting on more pictures. You’d think we were sending you off to war the way we all cried.”

More photos—ones with the kitchen table scattered with homework and snacks. Our mismatched glasses are filled with iced tea, and I can’t help smiling when I realize in one, I’m deep in concentration on my handwriting practice while Will, hidden behind his I Can Read book, watches me.

There’s one of Margie smoking on the back porch. I’d forgotten she used to smoke.

There are snow days—snowball fights, the moms snuggled in blankets on the porch, and the three of us running around in snowsuits that made it nearly impossible to walk. I can still hear the swish-swish of that material. Margie building one of her famous snow thrones. Me making a snow angel. The laughter lighting Mom’s face when Ruth tried to microwave our mittens to dry them and nearly caused a fire.

There are a few photos from a garage sale I don’t remember. In one, Mom wears oversized sunglasses at the table next to Ruth. In another, Margie is scribbling “Everything Must Go” on a sign while Ruth haggles with an old woman in a green visor.

“I think we made fourteen dollars that day. Spent twenty that night on margaritas and snacks to watch Practical Magic,” Mom tells me, laughter in her tone.

Then, “Oh!” Her face lights up, tapping a finger against a photo of the three of them gathered around a table littered with books and wine. “That was when Margie decided we needed to start a book club. It didn’t last more than a month or two. We could never decide on what to read. Margie wanted romance. Ruth wanted apocalyptic thrillers. I needed a dragon or two.” In the photo, Ruth is laughing so hard she’s crying while the books between them sit closed.

There are Christmas photos—the chaos of opening presents, the three of us in matching flannel pajamas next to Margie’s gas wall heater, our chins sticky with chocolate from our stockings.

And there we are, taking turns skipping across a hopscotch board drawn with chalk on the concrete pad outside Ruth’s house.

I trace a finger over the pages showing our bike races at dusk. There’s a shot of Will with a freshly skinned knee. Another captures Cory’s busted chin. He still has a scar from that.

On the next page, I spot the aftermath of the sparkler that scorched Will’s eyebrow.

There’s one where Will is standing next to my bike, guiding me, worry on his face while Cory speeds ahead. I must’ve just gotten my training wheels off. I don’t remember this day, or that Will ever looked at me with such kindness as a kid.

It’s funny the way our memories get stained.

A few pages over, I instantly recognize the talent show in second grade, me standing on the stage looking pale in the light from Margie’s flash. I don’t remember the song, but I remember the fear.

“I think Ruth was more nervous than you were.” Mom points to a spot in the corner of the photo, where I hadn’t noticed Ruth and Will standing in the wings, mouths open like they’re silently singing along with me.

There are photos of our Memorial Day camping trips. Lopsided tents placed in a row. Margie and the three of us holding sticks with speared hot dogs over a too-small fire. Ruth reading a book in a lawn chair, trying not to smile. Gooey s’mores between sticky fingers.

On another page, I find photos of the day we buried Scooby, all of us trying not to cry over the dirt grave. There’s the little pile of flowers I placed next to the painted rocks from Will and Cory.

And there’s the secret clubhouse Ruth built us when we were nine. It looks so small now. A little shack set back against the tree line, with a messy sign created by Cory that read No Grown Ups Allowed!

It was our secret place, our favorite place, despite the fact that Cory changed the password every week, and neither Will nor I could ever remember it.

In one photo, Cory is holding binoculars, peering through them as if standing guard. In another, we’re bundled in sleeping bags on the plywood floor—one of the many times we tried and failed to stay out all night. Something always managed to scare us.

There are dozens of photos of birthday parties filled with torn wrapping paper, candles being blown out, and, for Will and me, those matching, crooked party hats. We always hated that. Since our birthdays are less than two weeks apart, we were made to share parties every year. Cory, born in the summer, got his own.

Deeper into the book, there’s a handful of photos from the winter formal. Margie’s crying, hugging us both. Will’s in a stiff suit, and I’m standing a few feet away from him in a dress I didn’t really like. Cory is in the background with a slice of pizza in his hand. Four years older than us, he rarely attended the same school functions.

And there’s the day Cory moved out. I remember that dented box truck they borrowed to haul his mattress and the other hand-me-down furniture destined for his first apartment. It feels like it sat for days parked in front of Margie’s house. There’s just a single photo of Will and me standing next to him, while the rest are of the moms posing at his side as he pretends to be annoyed.

The next few pages have more photos of Will and me.

One of each of us before our driving tests and then another when we finally got our licenses. Will failed the first time and had to wait a whole two weeks to retake it—he forgot to check his blind spot. I teased him endlessly about the fact that I got mine first.