Lilly Sullivan

So I went to the third person in the car that day, my mom. And she says, sure, I know exactly where it was. And then she starts to tell me this story.

So I went to the third person in the car that day, my mom. And she says, sure, I know exactly where it was. And then she starts to tell me this story.

The bus stop? He was taking the bus? This is not the story I'd always heard. In my mom's version, they weren't in a car. She and Manuelita were walking down the street. They'd just left the Jacksons' house. The Jacksons were a family where my tia Manuelita worked as a cook. She says it was a beautiful day, not raining at all. And most importantly, dad wasn't hitchhiking.

The bus stop? He was taking the bus? This is not the story I'd always heard. In my mom's version, they weren't in a car. She and Manuelita were walking down the street. They'd just left the Jacksons' house. The Jacksons were a family where my tia Manuelita worked as a cook. She says it was a beautiful day, not raining at all. And most importantly, dad wasn't hitchhiking.

Was he like holding up a sign or something saying he wanted a ride?

Was he like holding up a sign or something saying he wanted a ride?

Because the story's always been hitchhiking.

Because the story's always been hitchhiking.

Wait, Mom, but your story and Anita's story is completely different. She remembers it, clearly.

Wait, Mom, but your story and Anita's story is completely different. She remembers it, clearly.

Then why does she remember this other story?

Then why does she remember this other story?

From my mom's point of view, this is especially mysterious because she's quite certain that Anita wasn't there. Not in a car. Not on the street. Not there for this moment at all.

From my mom's point of view, this is especially mysterious because she's quite certain that Anita wasn't there. Not in a car. Not on the street. Not there for this moment at all.

Anita remembers it.

Anita remembers it.

No, no, no. This kind of knocked me over. The hitchhiking story, as I've said, is the origin story of my family. My mom's had a private version of it for 50 years that she's kept to herself during the many, many conversations where we tell it. When my dad died 10 years ago, we wrote about this story in his obituary, like printed it in our local newspaper. We ran that obituary by my mom.

No, no, no. This kind of knocked me over. The hitchhiking story, as I've said, is the origin story of my family. My mom's had a private version of it for 50 years that she's kept to herself during the many, many conversations where we tell it. When my dad died 10 years ago, we wrote about this story in his obituary, like printed it in our local newspaper. We ran that obituary by my mom.

She didn't think it was worth correcting. Dad was the memory keeper of our family, a big-hearted, big-brained guy who held on to everything that happened. Who had chickenpox first as a kid? Natalie, he'd say. What was the name of that iguana that we had that died? Mari Iguana, he'd say. He would absolutely know exactly where this happened.

She didn't think it was worth correcting. Dad was the memory keeper of our family, a big-hearted, big-brained guy who held on to everything that happened. Who had chickenpox first as a kid? Natalie, he'd say. What was the name of that iguana that we had that died? Mari Iguana, he'd say. He would absolutely know exactly where this happened.