“What did we call the dent in my bedroom wall?”
Her eyes filled.
“The moon.”
“Who broke Mom’s vase during the blizzard?”
“I did. You took the blame because Dad was going to ground me before Maisie’s birthday.”
My knees nearly weakened.
“It’s really you.”
Clara stepped closer.
I stepped back.
“How are you alive?”
“Can we leave first?”
“No.”
She lowered her voice.
“I survived the crash.”
“We buried you.”
“It was an empty casket, Sarah.”
“Mom still puts flowers at your grave.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“Dad couldn’t drive that road for five years.”
“I know.”
That word stopped me.
“How do you know?”
Her face changed.
That was when I realized finding my sister alive might not be the hardest thing I was about to hear.
Outside, Clara asked me to drive her to her apartment.
For one ridiculous second, I thought she meant our parents’ house.
“I’ll call Mom and Dad.”
“No.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Please take me home first.”
“Your home?”
She gave me an address two towns away.
“You’ve been living that close?”
“For a few years.”
I pulled away from the curb.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Then Clara said, “There’s something strange about the phone call.”
“What?”
“I didn’t consciously remember your number.”
I glanced at her.
“They asked who they could call. I was still foggy from the medication. Apparently I gave them yours.”
“That number is more than ten years old.”
“I know.”
Somewhere inside the woman sitting beside me, beneath an entire decade of another life, my number had remained.
“Why mine?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Clara asked, “Are Mom and Dad okay?”
“They’re alive.”
“I meant emotionally.”
That made me angry.
“You remember my phone number but don’t know whether Mom and Dad are okay?”
She turned toward the window.
“That’s harder to explain.”
“Then start explaining.”
Her apartment made everything worse.
There were plants lining the windows.
Framed photographs of people I had never seen.
A yellow mug beside the sink.
A gardening book on the table.
I picked it up.
“You hate dirt.”
“I did.”
“You killed a cactus once.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then I noticed the photographs.
Clara laughing with friends.
Clara kneeling beside a garden.
Clara celebrating birthdays with strangers.
There wasn’t a single photograph of me.
