Well, a name that didn’t belong to the man I assumed was my father. "Nothing beats the Towers Hotel! Our elegant Sky-High Cocktail Bar offers Happy Hour against gravity-defying views of Scarborough Downs and the city of Portland." On the back, her spider-script noted she was having a "great time at the track betting on the horses with"-a name that didn’t belong to my father. But then my cousin passed me a sun-faded postcard she’d found in one of Meemom’s dilapidated trunks in the attic: on the front, an alpine-styled hotel room with red satin bedspreads and cut-outs of pine trees on the headboards. I knew her Meemom didn’t do word-a-day flashcards with her during breakfast, didn’t encourage her to use words like acerbic in sentences while she did her chores, and didn’t make her read thick books without any pictures. Yes, I know that’s an uncomfortable name for a girl my cousin told me I was named for the state’s racetrack.
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