She turned her gaze 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 arrived at her apartment, I saw just how completely she’d created a life separate from ours.
Plants lined the windows, framed photographs covered the walls, and a yellow mug sat beside the sink.
Clara had always 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 lips twitched.
Then I noticed the photographs.
Clara laughing at dinner.
Clara kneeling beside a garden bed.
Clara standing beside people I’d never seen before.
There wasn’t one picture of me.
Clara standing beside people I’d never seen before.
“”How long have you lived here?””
“”Three years.””
“”And before that?””
“”Farther away.””
“”Okay. Start with the crash.””
“”How long have you lived here?””
“”I was thrown clear before the car caught fire. I must have wandered afterward 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?””
“”Terrible. I knew how to use a spoon before I remembered my own last name.””
Clara rubbed her ring.
“”My first name returned before everything else. 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 nearly smiled.
“”When did you remember me?””
“”That was you.””
“”Sarah.””
“”How long?””
“”Please.””
“”How long, Clara?””
Her eyes welled up.
“”Six years.””
“”How long, Clara?””
“”Six?””
She nodded.
“”You knew I was alive for six years?””
“”Yes.””
“”You knew I believed you were dead?””
“”Yes.””
I picked up her mug.
“”You knew I was alive for six years?””
Then slowly set it back down.
“”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 reached for my purse. “”Sarah, wait.””
I reached the door.
“”I can explain.””
“”Then you wrote them for yourself, Clara.””
I glanced back at her.
“”You had six years.””
Then I walked out.
I didn’t call Mom and Dad that night.
That was my choice. Clara had already 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.
One for me, one “”spare.””
I’d been buying spares for a decade.
The next morning, I called Mom.
“”Are you sitting down?””
“”Sarah, I hate when you start like that.””
“”Please.””
One for me, one “”spare.””
Her voice shifted.
“”Okay.””
“”Clara’s alive.””
Silence.
Then, carefully, “”Sweetheart…””
“”I saw her.””
Another silence.
“”Sweetheart…””
“”She remembered the moon. She remembered the broken vase. It’s her.””
Dad joined the call.
“”What do you need from us?””
Not where, not how, just what do you need?
“”I don’t know.””
“”Then we’ll start there, sweetheart,”” he said.
“”She knew about the broken vase. It’s her.””
Two days later, I brought them to Clara.
Mom stopped just inside the apartment.
Clara stood beside the window.
Then Mom crossed the room.
“”My baby.””
Clara stiffened before falling against her.
I took them to Clara.
Dad remained behind, wiping his eyes.
“”Hey, kiddo.””
I looked away.
I loved her.
I was furious with her.
Both things fit.
After a while, Mom began speaking too quickly.
I was furious with her.
“”I still make the cherry pie you loved. Your room isn’t blue anymore, but we could change it back. And remember that song you girls used to sing?””
Clara’s hand slipped.
The mug she held struck the counter and rolled onto its side.
“”Stop.””
Mom froze.
“”And remember that song you girls used to sing?””
Clara covered her face with both hands.
“”Please, just stop.””
“”Clara?”” Mom whispered.
“”I can’t do this anymore!””
The room fell silent.
Dad stepped toward Mom, but I stayed where I was.
“”I can’t do this anymore!””
Clara looked at all three of us, breathing heavily.
“”This is exactly why I didn’t want to come back.””
Mom’s face crumpled. “”Because I mentioned pie?””
“”No, Mom. Because five minutes after seeing me, you’re already rebuilding the person I used to be.””
“”I thought you’d want something familiar.””
“”I don’t even like cherry pie anymore.””
“”This is exactly why I didn’t want to come back.””
Mom stared at her.
Then she looked at me.
“”But Sarah always loved it too. You girls liked all the same things.””
Clara let out one sharp laugh.
“”There. That.””
I felt something cold move through me.
“”You girls liked all the same things.””
“”What are you saying?””
Clara turned toward me.
“”Growing up, everything was Sarah and Clara. You got the better grade, made the team, won something, and people looked at me like I was the version that hadn’t.””
“”I never asked them to do that.””
“”I know.””
“”Growing up, everything was Sarah and Clara.””
“”Then why are you looking at me like I caused it?””
“”Because you never had to think about it.””
Her voice cracked.
“”You got to walk into a room and just be Sarah. I walked in and became the other one.””
Mom began crying.
“”I never knew you felt that way.””
“”I walked in and became the other one.””
“”Neither did I, not fully. Not until after the crash.””
Clara tightened her grip on the counter.
“”At first, when nobody knew who I was, it was terrifying. But later, when I started remembering pieces, something else happened.”” “”What?”” I asked. ” You remembered it?””
“”Apparently.””
Somewhere deep inside her, beneath ten years of another life, my number had somehow remained.
“”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 ever asking whether I was “”better.”” Dad, Jack, was quieter; after the crash, he had simply stayed beside me when words weren’t enough.
“”Are Mom and Dad okay?””
They had helped me endure losing Clara while Clara was still alive.
“”You knew my number,”” I said.
“”Apparently my brain did.””
“”But you don’t know if Mom and Dad are okay.””
She turned her gaze 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 arrived at her apartment, I saw just how completely she’d created a life separate from ours.
Plants lined the windows, framed photographs covered the walls, and a yellow mug sat beside the sink.
Clara had always 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 lips twitched.
Then I noticed the photographs.
Clara laughing at dinner.
Clara kneeling beside a garden bed.
Clara standing beside people I’d never seen before.
There wasn’t one picture of me.
Clara standing beside people I’d never seen before.
“”How long have you lived here?””
“”Three years.””
“”And before that?””
“”Farther away.””
“”Okay. Start with the crash.””
“”How long have you lived here?””
