Her mother likes to say it was strawberry blond, like some airbrushed super-model’s hair, but it was really more of a tannish red. Less elegant, perhaps, but accurate. In the picture, the ends of her hair are curled under her chin. Her mother likes to say it was natural, but she herself held the curling iron that morning while her daughter sat, unmoving, on the bathroom stool.
Her mother likes to say she was a born singer, that she was matching pitches before she could speak, but that’s a lie. Truly and honestly, her voice was not as incredible as people give her credit for. Her mother, of course, likes to say it was.
Her mother likes to say she was the perfect child. And to her mother, she was: friendly, popular, talented.
Her mother likes to tell others how flawless her daughter was. The people in town humor her, listening and nodding appropriately, because they know of her pain and pity her.
Her mother never mentions the thirteen sleeping pills that went missing from the medicine cabinet four years ago.