When he was a baby, his mother tried to kill him. Of this, Mickey is certain.
“Not possible,” a girlfriend (he forgets which) had said as they lay in her sweaty bed. “You’d have been too young.”
“To remember. If you were still in the crib. You must’ve been about one. Two tops.”
“Infantile amnesia. Kids can’t remember before the age of three. Not for this long anyway.”
He’d tried to explain. Yes, it’s a fuzzy image, but there are these little snapshots, these little sensory details, defined and sharp; these make it true.