"My snooping had a purpose. I wanted to see if, unlike me, my mother had kept a diary or a journal or some other record of her life, something from which I could derive information about who she'd been, what she'd felt, where she was in her head when she was sixteen. I'd wanted a tool, I suppose, against which to gauge my own level of intelligence, or matuirty, or perhaps sanity. I didn't find one. But now I had the sketchbook." But Charlie needs more than the sketchbook to find out who she is, and what the big family secret is that everyone has been hiding from her.