She worked six floors underground at a university in Albuquerque, fitting spare pieces into stories. “You might see just a postcard, a photo, and a matchbook from a bar,” she told me once. “But if I put those things together and do some research, I could find a love affair between famous writers, or political intrigue.” My mom was good at putting the stories of strangers together, even as she was refusing to tell me any details about hers. Like the identity of my dad: The Person Who Shall Not Be Named. The person I think about all the time.
