Page 158 of That Rush

Josie keeps one fist twisted in my shirt. After a full minute, her other hand reaches across the space between them.

Paige takes it and stays exactly where she is.

For several minutes, none of us moves. Josie’s fingers stay curled around Paige’s while I hold her against me.

After her breathing evens out, I ask, “Do you want to look at some pictures of Mommy?”

She gives a small nod against my shoulder.

I carry her to the couch and sit with her tucked against my side. Paige follows, then waits until Josie pats the cushion beside her before taking the offered spot.

My phone is still open to the useless braid tutorial. I close it and pull up the folder of pictures Krista sent over the years. There are hundreds of Josie eating, sleeping, grinning, wearing costumes, and displaying artwork I never understood without an explanation.

I used to look at these from wherever work had taken me and tell myself knowing what she did that day counted as being part of it. Looking at these now, I see the truth: getting a picture of her day was never the same as sharing it.

Josie swipes past a picture of herself in a purple tutu, then stops on one Krista took in a bathroom mirror. Josie is younger, with two neat braids joining at the back of her head. Krista’s face is half hidden behind the phone, but her smile is visible.

“That one.” Josie touches the screen. “That’s how she did it.”

“Okay.”

“Can you make it like that?”

I study the photo. It shows the finished braid and none of the steps that got it there. My instinct is to fix it: enlarge the photo, find a tutorial, solve the problem.

Josie needs something else from me.

“I can practice,” I tell her. “It might take me a few tries.”

Her mouth pulls down again. “Because you forgot too?”

“I never knew how she did this one.” I brush damp hair away from her cheek. “There are things I do forget, though.”

“Like what?”

“Sometimes I can remember that your mom laughed at something, but I can’t hear the exact sound of it. Then it comes back when I’m doing something else.”

Paige’s hand covers mine on the cushion.

“Does that mean you forgot Mommy?” Josie asks.

“No, baby. It means brains aren’t perfect.” I turn the phone so we can both see Krista’s smile. “Forgetting one sound or one song doesn’t erase your mom. You remember other pieces, and I remember pieces, and the people who loved her can tell you stories. It’s too much to hold by yourself.”

Josie considers that, her expression turning solemn—the same one she gets when deciding if a rule is worth breaking.

“She let me pick the hair ties,” she says. “Even if they didn’t match.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“She said matching was boring.”

That sounds like Krista. “Now I know because you told me.”

Josie looks at Paige. “Do you know an easy braid?”

“I know two regular ones,” Paige says. “They won’t join together, but your dad can watch me do them.”

“Can I have one pink hair tie and one purple?”