Prologue
Remember.
Henry said it with such earnestness. His hand cupped mine, his fingers frigid, as was everything in that facility, the winter chill snaking through the cracks, crevices, and paper-thin window panes, finding every possible way to slither inside.
He leaned close to me, his face inches from my own, his eyes fixed on mine. I used to lose myself in those eyes, the irises so deep brown they bled into his pupils. I could smell his aftershave, the undertones of sandalwood, the hint of a musk that reminded me of how Daddy smelled on Sundays.
See? I can remember.
I remember Daddy, all those years ago, and Mama and Georgie—how he used to love to run. And how he couldn’t help himself from giggling as he sprinted, when he still could.
I remember when Henry and I met at the university, our first date, the restaurant with the tablecloths, my back so sore from sitting up straight, and how he made me believe in the possibility of love at first sight when all I hoped for was someone to belong to.
I remember our babies, the first cries and the ones that would ring out at all hours of the night.
I remember silence, too.
Henry stood to leave, his hat in his hand, his eyes on the asbestos-tile floor.
That place, and the circumstances that had brought us there, had stripped away any warmth we had once shared. He offered no kiss, nor embrace. I used to find comfort in his arms that he would wrap around me, pull me in to him, as I rested against his chest and listened to his heart flutter a melody meant just for me: Lu-lu, Lu-lu, Lu-lu.
But over time that tune had changed, and his voice now drummed my name.
Lulu, remember.
I do! I wanted to shout. But I knew better. I knew to be sweet, as Mama always said. I had forgotten for a moment, but it had come back to me. For now, I needed to stay quiet. Smile the smile. And save the screams for the hours when the others slept.
