Clara had controlled enough of the truth.
I went home, opened a kitchen cabinet, and stared at those two blue mugs.
For ten years, I had been buying replacements for someone who was still alive.
The next morning, I called my mother.
“Are you sitting down?”
“Sarah, I hate when you say that.”
“Please.”
Her voice immediately changed.
“Okay.”
“Clara’s alive.”
There was silence.
Then, very carefully, “Sweetheart…”
“I saw her.”
Another silence.
“She knew things nobody else would know. It’s her.”
Dad eventually came onto the phone.
He didn’t ask twenty questions.
He simply said, “What do you need from us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we’ll start there.”
Two days later, I drove them to Clara’s apartment.
Mom stopped just inside the door.
Clara stood near the window.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Mom crossed the room.
“My baby.”
Clara stiffened before collapsing into her arms.
