First an old record, Italian love songs. Then a worn doll. Next, a tiny argyle sweater. Objects from thirty years ago when Camilla Glass could count all her possessions on one hand, from the days just after her home was destroyed and with it, her entire family. When these objects begin to reappear in Camilla’s life, one by one, all these years later, they loosen something in her that needed to be tight, something that held her together, allowed her to function as a wife and mother. Once the subterfuge behind them is uncovered, all kinds of truths come to light, some devastating, some heartening.

PART ONE: THE FIRST ARTIFACT

CAMILLE

When Camille was little and her parents were still alive, birthdays had been huge. Themed cakes, family parties, princess for the day—that sort of thing. So Camille tried to do the same for her son, Timothy. This year was his ascension into double digits, and Camille and Timothy had gleefully planned out a party befitting the occasion. The cake would be a geode, and Camille and Timothy binge-watched Cake Boss for guidance. The snacks would be lumpy and gray like rocks. They brainstormed possibilities ranging from bulk chocolate that party guests could break up with a hammer to Rice Krispies Treats dyed gray and embedded with white chocolate and butterscotch chips. Timothy wanted to buy some chocolate rocks and mix them in with real rocks to see if he could fool people, but Camille said no.

The only real issue involved the guest list. Timothy argued vehemently for including all the kids in his class, plus the cousins. However, they were leaving just two days later on an family trip to Rome, and Camille couldn’t bear the thought of so many people in the house. And Camille’s husband was no help. Ryan wanted the whole family, too. Camille felt wrong-footed as she often did, unable to explain her need to keep things small. The pandemic had been a relief in that way, putting a stop to socializing for a while.

And now that the party was here, Camille observed, not for the first time, that the planning had been the best part. She and Timothy had giggled over the disgusting Rice Krispies Treats, and she had glowed in his delight with the geode cake, complete with rock candy stalactites and a little Lego Timothy, explorer of his own magical world.

But between getting the house ready, finishing up Timothy’s birthday presents, and packing for Rome, she went into the party drained.

Camille was standing at the gigantic island chopping fruit for the parents, who might possibly want something healthy. Ryan had come in to refill the chip bowls and grab some beer for the parents.

Ryan moved toward her, then away. She knew he had read her body language and changed course. She was relieved not to be touched just then, embarrassed to be so irritable. She had meant this to be a lovely party for Timothy, but what he probably really wanted even more than a geode cake was a mother who wasn’t so damn uptight.

Ryan had been whistling, cheerful with a house full of people. He’d probably love to entertain more, and this was the house for it, shaded back yard, three stories, big living room.

When Ryan’s phone rang, he set down the bottles on the counter to answer it. Camille saw him read the screen and glance in her direction. His voice changed, warm and low as he turned away. “Hey.” He slipped into the utility room that led out onto the back deck, which wasn’t air-conditioned, and on an August afternoon in Boston, was quite muggy. But also private.

Camille edged closer. She rested her hand on the paper towel dispenser and listened, distracted by a burst of laughter from the living room and the afternoon sun through the window. She turned to get the painful light out of her eyes.

“Hey Ryan, where’s my beer?” someone yelled.

“I swear, I’ll try at least three kinds of pasta,” Ryan murmured, then paused. “Yes, and gnocchi….That’s not true, I won’t throw the bet!” His words hard to make out, but his tone was warm and easy. Was it talking to her that made him sound like that? “I’m quite sure the waiters will understand me, however I pronounce ‘gnocchi.’”

Camille heard someone coming. It was Joey’s Dad. Bob? Bill?

“Looking for your beer?” Camille asked. She nodded toward the counter where Ryan had set them in his hurry to get on the phone with Mariana. It had to be her.

Bill nodded, eyes on her breasts, then disappeared again.

“Take the chips,” Camille called after him, but he didn’t hear.

Ryan finally returned as Camille rinsed her hands at the sink.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Oh, someone on the Bain project. They just wanted to know if I was going to be back for the meeting tomorrow. We’re close to wrapping up.”

They. No name, not even a gender. Camille kept her face turned away.

Fine. If he wanted Mariana, he could fucking have her. Then her breath caught. For better or for worse, he was her one person. In her whole adult life, she had told only one person about the fire, Ryan. He just held her and kept repeating, “I’m here. I’m here,” as he stroked her hair. When she told him she was pregnant, four weeks after she found out herself, the look of joy on his face…he had cupped her face in his hands, said, “Thank you.” He had put his hands on her flat stomach as they lay in bed. “We made this.” Until then, the baby had seemed like hers alone.

She wanted to say, I know you’re probably better off without me. She wanted to say, I know why you’d choose her over me. She wanted to say, Fuck you. Instead she said, “I really wish the party wasn’t today.”

“It’s his birthday, Camille.” Ryan paused behind her. Camille willed him to understand what she really meant, which was, Why don’t you talk to me like you talk to her? Instead, he said, “I really wish we could have invited my family.”

Camille’s voice grew sharp. “It was Timothy’s choice. I told him he could either have the family or else friends from school. I can only do so much.” She stopped talking because her throat closed up. She wanted Ryan to get it for once, just take her in his arms and hold her with no expectations of anything more. It’s funny; she’d been so drawn to his big family when she decided to marry him. They all lived nearby, and it seemed like instant entree into the life she’d always wanted. She had thought she would finally regain the parents she had lost, and not only that, she thought she would be best friends with her sisters-in-law, just like her Mom and Aunt Shelley had been best friends. But instead she always felt outshone by Ryan’s mom, the perfect homemaker, and Ryan’s sisters, who were just like their mom. Ryan had said enough over the years for her to get that he, too, saw her failings in high relief when compared to his mom and sisters. They were loud and tight-knit and full of inside jokes, and Camille just seemed to fade into the background, never able to join in. Timothy did love all his cousins so much, though. She felt the familiar squeeze of guilt for not making more of an effort, for his sake.

Ryan slid a hand around her waist. She stiffened. He left the room.

Camille closed her eyes and leaned against the counter, letting her face droop. She needed comfort, not yet more demands. She remembered her own birthday parties: the Snoopy cake, the ballerina cake, the zoo cake with animal crackers. Camille had been allowed to invite her whole class—which was unusual in those days—and her Mom always came up with themed activities and food (pin the tulle on the ballerina, eat cut-up hot dogs out of Snoopy dog bowls). She knew how to take any occasion and make it grand.

Camille shook her head and reminded herself not to think about it. What was most important was to do everything right for Timothy, so that he always, always felt loved.