Seconds later, the door pulled back a few inches. A pair of shrewd eyes peered out. “Yeah?”

There was a moment of disorientation, of fractured memories coalescing around the cigarette-gruff voice and warily narrowed eyes. It was how she used to open the door when the rent was due or when she owed money to one of her dealers.

“Mama?”

The door pulled back another few inches. “Christy-Lynn?”

It was the scar she noticed first, a puckered pink gash running from her right eye down to the corner of her mouth, tugging her upper lip into a perpetual half smile. It was all Christy-Lynn could do not to take a step back.

“Yes, Mama, it’s me.”

The door pulled back the rest of the way, a pong of stale cigarette smoke drifting out to envelop her. “What in God’s name—”

“I came to see how you were.”

“Why?”

Christy-Lynn stared at her, baffled by the one-word response, but the truth was she didn’t have an answer. “I honestly don’t know.”

“You drove clear from Maine for no reason?”

“I live in Virginia now. Are you going to let me in?”

Charlene seemed to give the question serious thought, but finally pulled back the door and stepped aside. It took Christy-Lynn’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, but gradually she made out a small living room with an even smaller kitchen and dinette off to the side. The furniture was worn and mismatched, the couch covered in a faded orange sheet. There was a box fan perched in one of the side windows, circulating sticky air in the cramped space.

A cigarette fumed in a chipped glass ashtray overflowing with butts. Charlene reached past Christy-Lynn to stub it out, then whisked a Natural Light can from the end table before clicking off the TV. Her eyes darted anxiously, as if seeing the place through her daughter’s eyes, and for one terrible moment, Christy-Lynn was reminded of the day she’d brought poor Linda Neely home.

“I’ve just made some tea,” Charlene blurted awkwardly. “I’ll get you a glass.”

Christy-Lynn followed her to the kitchen, where the smell of old beer and even older food greeted her. She tried not to count the empty beer cans in the sink, scattered among what looked like last night’s dishes. There were nine.

“They’re not all mine,” Charlene told her, noting the direction of her daughter’s gaze. “Some of them are Roger’s. I’d have tidied up if I knew you were coming.”

“I’m sorry,” Christy-Lynn said, dragging her eyes from the sink and then from the overflowing trash can in the corner. “I couldn’t find a phone number for you.”

“You know I never could stand a phone.”

No. Especially when the bill collectors were calling.

“Who’s Roger?”

“He’s my . . . we live together. Going on two years now. Works for Tilden Lumber over in Ravenel.” She handed Christy-Lynn a glass of tea. “He’s . . . steady.”

Christy-Lynn’s brows lifted. Two years. And a job. As far as she knew, it was a first for both, so by her mother’s standards he probably was steady. Still, she refrained from voicing her thoughts.

Charlene turned a hard eye on her. “Why are you here, Christy-Lynn? After all these years?”

“You’re my mother,” she said coolly.

Charlene snorted as she turned away, heading for the living room and the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. She fumbled in her pocket for a disposable lighter and lit the crumpled end. “I’ve always been your mother,” she said, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “Never brought you around before.”

There had been no indictment in the words, only a wary curiosity. For the first time, Christy-Lynn allowed herself a closer study of her mother. She wore slippers and a limp cotton housedress, the missing top button exposing several inches of blade-thin collarbone. Her once dark hair was dull and brittle now, shot through with threads of gray, and her skin was deeply lined. But it was Charlene Parker’s eyes that told the real tale. Once a deep and startling green, they had faded to a washed-out gray, as if the light in them had guttered out. Christy-Lynn did the mental math—fifty-two or thereabouts. Far too young to look so used up. She’d been beautiful once, the kind of beautiful that turned heads. A million years ago.

“I know it’s been a long time, Mama.”

“Twenty years.”

Christy-Lynn dropped her eyes. “Yes.”

“So why now?”

“I’ve been trying to forget you.”

The words had tumbled out unchecked; Christy-Lynn regretted them the moment they were out. She watched as they hit their mark, the brief flash of pain in the dull gray eyes, the quick look away as her mother sank into a shabby velour recliner.

“That’s what I get for asking, I suppose.”

Christy-Lynn perched on the edge of couch with her tea. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. My husband died, and I’ve been dealing with some things. A lot of memories keep coming up.”

Charlene reached for her hand, then drew back, as if she’d thought better of it. “I saw the news about your husband on TV. And in the papers.” She shook her head as she stared at the dirty shag carpet between her slippers. “Nasty business with that woman and all. Do you have . . . are there children?”