That night, I am too wired to sleep. At eleven o'clock, I give up on the pretense of it. For at least ten minutes I roam through my darkened condo. Once, I almost go to Marah's room and waken her, but I know that would be selfish of me, so I resist the urge to open her door. Finally, at about 11:20, I decide to work. Maybe writing will help.

I crawl back into bed and pull my computer into my lap, opening my most recent document. There it is: Second Act. And a blue screen. I stare at it, concentrating so intently I begin to imagine things. I think I hear footsteps in the hallway, a door opening and closing, but then it's quiet again.

Research. That's what I need. I have to go through the boxes in my storage unit.

I can't put it off anymore. After pouring myself a glass of wine, I go downstairs. Kneeling in front of the box, I tell myself to be strong. I remind myself that Random House has bought this memoir and paid for it. All I need to do is write down my life story. Certainly I can find the words.

I go to the Queen Anne box and open it. I pull the scrapbook out and place it on the floor beside me. I am not ready for it yet. I will work up to that collection of my dreams and heartaches.

I lean over and peer into the dark interior. The first thing I see is a ratty-looking stuffed rabbit.

Mathilda.

She is missing one shiny black eye and her whiskers look as if they've been cut off. This gift from my grandmother had been my best friend growing up.

I put Mathilda aside and reach in again. This time, I feel something soft and pull out a small gray Magilla Gorilla T-shirt.

My hand trembles just a little.

Why did I keep this?

But even as I ask the question, I know the answer. My mom bought it for me. It's the only thing I remember her giving to me.

A memory sears away everything else.

I am young-maybe four or five. I am in my chair at the kitchen table, playing with my spoon instead of eating my breakfast, when she comes in. A stranger.

My Tallulah, she says, lurching unsteadily toward me. She smells funny. Like sweet smoke. Did you miss your mommy?

Upstairs, a bell rings. That's Grandpa, I say.

The next thing I know, I am in the stranger's arms and she is running out of the house.

Gran is behind us, yelling, "Stop! Dorothy-"

The woman says something about him and adds a bunch of words I don't understand. Then she stumbles. I fall out of her arms and crack my head on the floor. My grandmother screams; I cry; the woman scoops me back into her arms. After that, the memory darkens, turns murky.

I remember her asking me to call her Mom. And I remember how hard the seat was in her car and how I was supposed to pee by the side of the road. I remember the smell of smoke in the car and her friends. They scared me.

I remember the brownies. She gave them to me and I ate them and she thought it was funny when I lost my balance and started throwing up.

I remember waking up in a hospital bed, with my name, TALLULAH ROSE, pinned to my chest.

Who was that lady? I asked Gran later when she came to pick me up.

Your mama, Gran said. I remember those two words as if I heard them yesterday.

"I don't like living in a car, Gran."

"Of course you don't."

I sigh and put the T-shirt back in the box. Maybe this memoir thing is a bad idea. I back away from the box and leave the storage unit, remembering to lock it this time.

CHAPTER Fifteen

"You don't need to walk me to all of my therapy appointments, you know," Marah says to me on a bright and sunny Monday in late June as we walk up First Street toward the public market.

"I know. I want to," I say, linking my arm through hers.

Here's what I have learned in the two weeks she has lived with me: being responsible for a teenager is exhausting and terrifying. Every time she goes into the bathroom, I worry that she's cutting herself. I look through the trash and count the Band-Aids in every box. I am afraid to let her out of my sight. I am constantly trying to do the right thing, but let's face it, what I know about motherhood wouldn't fill a Jell-O shot.

Now, in Dr. Bloom's waiting room, I open up my laptop and stare at the blank blue screen. I have to get started on this thing, make some real progress. I have to.

I know how these things go. I've read a hundred memoirs in my life. They always begin in the same way; with the backstory. I need to set the stage, so to speak, to paint a picture of my life before I came into it. Introduce the players and the place.

And there it is. The thing that stops me this time, just as it has each time before: I can't write my story without knowing my own history. And my mother's.

I know almost nothing about her, and I know even less about my father. My history is this blank, yawning void. No wonder I can't write anything.

I have to talk to my mother.

At the thought, I open my purse and find the small orange container. I am down to my last Xanax. I swallow it without water and then, slowly, I pick up my cell phone and call my business manager.

"Frank," I say when he answers. "This is Tully. Is my mother still cashing her monthly checks?"

"I'm glad you called. I've left some messages. We need to talk about your finances-"

"Yeah, sure. But now I need to know about my mom. Is she still cashing her check?"

He tells me to hold, and then comes back onto the line. "Yes. Every month."

"And where is she living these days?"

There is another pause. "She's living in your house in Snohomish. Has been for a few years. We sent you notice. I think she moved in when your friend was sick."

"My mom's living in the house on Firefly Lane?" Did I know that, really?

"Yes. And now, can we talk about-"

I hang up. Before I can really process this information, work through it, Marah is coming out of Dr. Bloom's office.

That's when I notice the goth kid is beside me again. His black hair is streaked in magenta and green and safety pins hang from his earlobes. I see a glimpse of the script tattoo on his throat. I think it says madness, but there's more I can't see.

At Marah's entrance, he stands. Smiles. I don't like the way he looks at my goddaughter.