My mother's brother Andy is a pedophile.*

He may have molested my twin sister and me when we were 3 or 4 years old, despite his preference for boys. I’m not sure because I have no memory of it. On the other hand, my twin, Cynda, does recall being sexually assaulted.

We both remember him taking inappropriate pictures of us. A quick opening of our bedroom door, and a flashbulb popping. I can still smell the smoke. (Yes, flash photography used to entail a literal, small explosion.) I thought we were playing a game. I guess, in a way, we were.

Memory is a scammer, and false memories sometimes implant themselves. Memories, as con artists, also have a disconcerting way of evaporating. For instance, the only way I could convince mom I had chickenpox as a child was to show her the scars.

The upshot is that Cynda’s recollection of our being molested by Uncle Andy does not mean we were molested. My lack of such recall doesn’t mean we weren’t. It’s a draw.

*Family names have been changed.

On June 20, 1980, Andy was involuntarily committed to California’s State Department of Health as a Mentally Disordered Sex Offender. His commitment took place one day after my parents’ tenth wedding anniversary and five days before my fifth birthday. Andy’s term in Atascadero State Hospital (ASH), an all-male psychiatric institution, was initially set at five years. He served seven, minus one day.

According to my wonderful Uncle Trevor, who helped raise me, Andy molested as many as 29 boys – two of whom gave statements to police – and entered a plea of nolo contendere to avoid having all 29 of them testify. Mom maintains the number of victims was closer to 84. All I know is this: As a popular seventh-grade teacher in a one-building K-12 school, Andy enjoyed plenty of opportunity, much like a person with a raging sweet tooth managing a candy store.

My immediate family and I visited Andy at ASH twice, once in 1981 and again in 1983. Visiting Uncle Andy focuses on the 1981 visit.

When you enter the cell in which Visiting Uncle Andy is housed, you see two display cases containing Andy’s criminal record and other artifacts, names changed or redacted.

Past the display cases are three antique prison doors, from Holmesburg Prison, stood upright in a configuration a little like a three-way dressing-room mirror. Peepholes inset into the doors give a dreamy view into dioramas depicting three different areas of ASH: The main entrance, the hallway we were ushered in through, and the visitors’ room.

The faraway, abstract quality imparted by the peepholes references the shiftiness of memory. Lost somewhere in the dream is my six-year-old self, visiting my wayward uncle in a huge Art Deco jewel-box of a correctional facility. A faded lady, the building is smothered in drab, institutional décor, with unexpected touches of her former grace.