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.
