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344 pages, Hardcover
First published July 27, 2021
I knew the Winter sisters from high school. We moved in different circles at university, but I’d see one or both from time to time and, like everybody else, they seemed to be intrigued by my apparent friendship with the Great Chase. If I could have seen the future, it wouldn’t have surprised me that, one day, he and Peggy Winter would be close. They were beings from the same genetic pool. Like Allan, she was tall, athletic. She followed sports, and could discuss team standings as if they really mattered to her. She was, physically, unlike her sister, Annie, who was classically blond with startling blue eyes. Peggy’s hair was auburn, her eyes deep-set and dark, some days green and some days hazel, depending on the light. Allan never seemed to notice Peggy at the time, which I found odd. Then I discovered that feigning indifference is sometimes a subtle tactic to get attention. And it worked for Allan. Peggy wasn’t used to being overlooked.
When Allan fell, we were at the tee on the tenth hole of a golf course. It would take a long time to absorb the full impact of what happened there. Up close, death is like a mountain we happen to be standing on. Maybe we can see a piece of it, but the whole remains unreal until there’s distance.
Annie once explained her theory that memory is a parallel reality. Basically, an extended falsehood, a lifelong lie. At best, a kind of literature. But for me, memory is embedded in sensations, not narrative. Sound and smell. Touch. Music. Aroma. Colour. Revulsion from the smell of blood. Muddy lanes and sodden fields in spring. Fresh-cut hay in summer. The tang of apples in the fall. I associate particular events with certain seasonal conditions.The sharp heat of August feels unlike the warmth of a mellow morning in September or October; autumn has its own unique sensual pungency. And so I can, with relative certainty, “remember” that the series of events I am going to try to reconstruct happened mostly in the autumn and the winter of an extraordinary year. Ironically, I clearly remember the moment when I was told that there was a very real possibility that I could lose important aspects of my individuality. Memory, for one. Ultimately, my independence. Specifically, I recall the particular chill of a winter rainfall.