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I drove toward campus, the air conditioning on high, with two fingers hooked around the bottom of the steering wheel, shifting my hands whenever the heat became unbearable, the top down because unless it was raining or too cold, I’d always driven with the top down.

The Cure came through the radio as I crossed East Washington, the sound rising above the wind, the first few notes of a song I knew so well opening a door in my memory before I could slam it shut.

Claire had been a baby.

I was in the kitchen, dancing barefoot while she sat in her high chair banging a wooden spoon against the tray, and Paul had come through the back door carrying grocery bags against his chest. Sunlight had stretched across the linoleum, Claire had laughed hard enough to hiccup, and I’d turned toward Paul while he stood there watching the two of us with that quiet smile of his.

The memory was so ordinary that it hurt. Then, before I could settle into it, something shifted. Claire had been wearing a yellow dress or maybe the high chair had been yellow? No, that wasn’t right.

I could still hear the spoon striking the tray, but when I tried to see her little face clearly, the edges softened enough to make my foot ease off the gas.

A horn sounded behind me as I glanced up and realized the light had turned green.

“Sorry,” I muttered, though the man behind me couldn't hear me and probably wouldn't have accepted the apology anyway.

I accelerated through the intersection while The Cure kept singing as if nothing had happened.

Claire Elizabeth.

Benjamin Walter.

Their names came immediately, and I repeated them as I drove. I still knew who they were even if some of the smaller details had begun to slip away when I reached for them.

Kim was already at the Memorial Union Terrace when I arrived, sitting near the lake with her bare feet propped on one of the orange sunburst chairs, a sweating paper cup of Coke balanced on her thigh. Her dark blond hair had been french braided, although several pieces had escaped around her face. She wore a red tank top, faded denim skirt, and the cheap plastic sunglasses she’d bought at Walgreens that she insisted made her look European.

Her red Volkswagen Beetle was parked along Langdon Street, the Mondale sticker she'd slapped crookedly across the bumper along with one that said, 1984 Is Not an Instruction Manual, which made the car recognizable from a distance.

“There you are.” She lowered the sunglasses as I approached.

“I was beginning to think you'd run off with a drummer.”

“Not this week.”

I dropped into the chair across from her, setting my purse beneath the table while a breeze came off Lake Mendota and lifted the damp hair from the back of my neck.

The Terrace spread around us in bright patches of red, yellow, green, and orange chairs, most of them occupied by students, families, and people who looked as though they’d spent the entire summer beside the lake and saw no compelling reason to return indoors before Labor Day.

Sailboats moved across the blue water beyond the railing, their white sails flashing when they turned, while closer to shore a windsurfer made repeated attempts to remain upright.

At the next table, a boy with mirrored sunglasses had a Walkman clipped to the waistband of his shorts, the foam-covered headphones large enough to qualify as protective equipment, while somewhere behind us a portable radio played Ghostbusters.

Kim pushed a plastic basket toward me. “I got fries.”

“You always get fries.”

“I also got you a brat.”

I looked inside the basket, where the bratwurst sat in a paper boat with mustard running down one side, as my stomach growled.

“I'm touched.”

“You should be. I stood in line behind three children arguing over ice cream.”

“Heroic.”

“One wanted blue moon and his mother said no because it would stain his shirt, and I nearly intervened on constitutional grounds.”

I laughed and picked up the brat, taking a bite while Kim pretended not to watch me.