"Friends," I repeat because I know it would be rude not to. And because I think maybe. Maybe.

"Then I'll stop by sometime, since I just live down the street?" he says as he walks away.

"Sure."

"Thanks for the invite, neighbor," he calls over his shoulder.

Did I invite him?

Contents

Empty adj. 1. Containing nothing, having none of the usual or appropriate contents. 2. Vacant, unoccupied. 3. Destitute of some quality or qualities.

Now, a day later, I wonder what friends means to Dane. I wonder at his voice that is so different from his eyes. I wonder if I know anything at all. But I do know this: The word I felt when

I looked into his face was the right word.

Home

The house is empty. Saturdays are empty, I decide. There is no banging. No restoration. No school. No anything. Mother left early in the morning. She didn't tell me where she was going but asked me to stay close by. I wanted to say no. But I didn't.

Lily's been out in her greenhouse all morning. She didn't invite me to join her. I wouldn't want to anyway. I've looked out my bedroom window twice, trying to see what she is doing, but most of the inside of the greenhouse is out of view. I don't care what she is doing.

I lie back on my bed and look at the ceiling. A Cotswold ceiling is fairly uneventful. It matches me.

Mother and Lily don't know, but Father was right. My memory is coming back.

It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.

I remember shopping for socks, feeling the socks, paying for the socks, looking at the receipt for the socks. Every detail of a sock-shopping outing that happened five years ago. Who cares about socks?

But then others . . . those come out of nowhere, too. Last night in the hallway, I was dizzy with the rush of this memory. I had to lean against the wall in the dark and close my eyes. It was so clear. I was sobbing. Screaming for Mother. I saw her crying. A tear, briefly, before she walked away. I cried for her to come back. I tried to reach out for her, but Father held me back. No. He held me. I was a toddler. Maybe eighteen months old.

I wore a bright red coat; Father, a black one. He kissed my cheek. Wiped my tears. Promised she would return. I kicked my feet. He held me tighter. I remember it like it was yesterday. How can I remember this?

If I have to remember a lifetime of memories, bits at a time, will it take me another whole lifetime to reclaim them all? Or one day will they all connect up and explode inside of me?

I peek out my window again. No sign of Lily. The floor creaks beneath my feet. I walk to the other upstairs rooms. They are all still empty. Will Claire ever fill them? But with what? With only me? I go downstairs. I have never really properly explored the downstairs rooms. Other than a hurried rush to Claire's bathroom when I cut my knee, I have never spent any time in the rooms beyond the hallway. It only just now strikes me as odd that I have been like a houseguest, confining myself to my room and the shared rooms only, never feeling free to roam the rest of the house. Stay close by, Jenna. I am.

I go to the first doorway on the right in the downstairs hall-way. Lily's room, I think. I push open the door, but it's an office. Claire's office, by the looks of the blueprints, fabric samples, and design books. It is cluttered and disorganized. Not what I would expect of Claire.

I move to the next doorway on the right. I turn the knob. The hinges squeal, startling me. Mother has still not updated the hardware and keys of the house. Maybe she thinks it makes the Cotswold more authentic, but it makes moving about unnoticed much more of a challenge. I find a large room, simply furnished. Yes, Lily's room. A pair of her shoes sits neatly in the corner. On the bureau is a scattering of framed pictures. Claire. My grandfather and Lily. And another one of a little girl in a pink party dress and black shiny shoes. A little girl who holds Lily's hand. The little girl Lily loved. I walk over and lay it facedown. So what if she knows. What can she do? Hate me? I feel empowered and I kick her shoes out of alignment, and I'm amazed that such a small action could feel so good. Enough of Lily's room for one day.

The next door on the left side of the hallway is locked. I move on to Claire's room. The master suite is large. Adjoining the bedroom is a sitting area furnished with two overstuffed chairs and a small library. An arched doorway on the other side of the bedroom leads to a dressing area, closets, and a bathroom. The closets form the same odd tunneling arrangement as mine does. Multiple closets for different needs. Overkill. The largest closet has another door at the back of it that leads toward the center of the house, so I know it would be a windowless room. I put my ear to the door and hear something. A faint hum. I jiggle the lever, but it is firmly locked.

The mattress. Mattress. Mattress. I walk to Claire's bed, throw back the bottom corner of the spread, and slide my hand beneath the mattress. I pull out my hand and try another corner. It is there. A key. I grab it and stand. For once I remember something about Claire that is useful.

"What are you doing?"

I slip my hand into my pocket. "Nothing."

"Looks like something to me."

I look at the ruffled corners. "I was just straightening Claire's bed. She left it unmade. There's nothing else to do around here.''

Lily looks into my eyes, like she's searching for something. I finger the key in my pocket, and she watches but doesn't say anything except, "There's someone outside looking for you."