“You supposedly died ten years ago, Clara.”
“I cracked a filling. This was the only place that could see me today.”
“So you don’t live here.”
“No. I haven’t lived anywhere near you.”
“How long have you lived two towns away?”
“A few years.”
I pulled away from the curb.
“So you don’t live here.”
For the first few minutes, neither of us spoke.
When I got scared, I made lists.
That morning, mine held nothing but questions.
Clara broke the silence first.
“I need to tell you something about the call.”
I glanced at her.
Clara broke the silence first.
“What about it?”
“I didn’t know I’d given them your number.”
“What?”
“I was groggy. They asked who they could call, and apparently I gave them yours.”
“Clara, that number is more than ten years old.”
“What about it?”
“I know.”
“You remembered it?”
“Apparently.”
Somewhere inside her, buried under ten years of another life, my number had still been waiting.
“Why mine?”
“I don’t know.”
“You remembered it?”
After a moment, Clara asked, “Are Mom and Dad okay?”
“They’re alive.”
“I meant emotionally.”
“I know.”
Mom, Alita, called every Sunday without asking whether I was “better.” Dad, Jack, was quieter; after the crash, he had simply sat beside me when words failed.
“Are Mom and Dad okay?”
They had helped me survive losing Clara while Clara was still alive.
“You knew my number,” I said.
“Apparently my brain did.”
“But you don’t know whether Mom and Dad are okay.”
She turned toward the window.
“That’s harder to explain.”
“But you don’t know whether Mom and Dad are okay.”
“Then you’d better start soon.”
When we got to her apartment, I understood how completely she’d built a life apart from ours.
There were plants in the windows, framed photographs, and a yellow mug beside the sink.
Clara had a favorite mug.
I picked up a gardening book.
“You hate dirt.”
Clara had a favorite mug.
“I did. Before.”
“You killed a cactus.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then I saw the photographs.
Clara laughing at dinner.
Clara kneeling beside a garden bed.
Clara standing with people I’d never met.
There wasn’t one picture of me.
Clara standing with people I’d never met.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Three years.”
“And before that?”
“Farther away.”
“Okay. Start from the crash.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“I was thrown clear before the car burned. I must have wandered after the crash because a driver found me miles away near another road. I had a head injury and nothing on me that identified me.”
“And your memory?”
“Bad. I knew how to use a spoon before I knew my own last name.”
Clara rubbed her ring.
“My first name came back before the rest did. Knowing I was Clara wasn’t the same as knowing where Clara belonged.”
“And your memory?”
“Like what?”
“Mom’s yellow kitchen. You singing badly in the shower.”
“That was you.”
“Absolutely not.”
I almost smiled.
“When did you remember me?”
“That was you.”
“Sarah.”
“How long?”
“Please.”
“How long, Clara?”
Her eyes filled.
“Six years.”
“How long, Clara?”
“Six?”
She nodded.
“You knew I was alive for six years?”
“Yes.”
“You knew I thought you were dead?”
“Yes.”
I picked up her mug.
“You knew I was alive for six years?”
Then carefully put it back.
“Did you call?”
“I tried once.”
“Once?”
“I found Mom and Dad’s old number. It had been disconnected.”
“So that was it?”
“Did you call?”
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
“I wrote letters.”
“Did you send them?”
She looked down.
“No.”
“I wrote letters.”
“Then you wrote them for yourself, Clara. Not for any of us.”
She flinched.
I grabbed my purse.
“Sarah, wait.”
I reached the door.
“I can explain.”
“Then you wrote them for yourself, Clara.”
I looked back at her.
“You had six years.”
Then I left.
I didn’t call Mom and Dad that night.
That was my decision. Clara had controlled enough of the truth.
At home, I opened a drawer and found my two blue mugs.
I didn’t call Mom and Dad that night.
