“Dad couldn’t drive that highway for five years.”
“I know.”
My stomach dropped.
“How do you know?”
She opened her eyes. And suddenly I understood that Clara being alive was not the only secret waiting for me.
Outside, she asked me to take her home. For one ridiculous second, I assumed she meant our parents’ house.
“I’ll call Mom and Dad.”
“No.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Please take me to my apartment first.”
“Your apartment?”
She gave me an address. I recognized the town.
“That’s two towns away.”
“I know.”
I almost laughed from disbelief.
“You’ve supposedly been dead for ten years and you’re living two towns away?”
“Not the entire time.”
“How long?”
“A few years.”
I drove in silence. When I’m frightened, I make lists. That morning, my mind contained nothing but questions. Finally, Clara spoke.
“There’s something I need to explain about the dentist calling you.”
I glanced at her.
“What?”
“I didn’t consciously choose your number.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was still groggy. They asked who they could call, and apparently I gave them your number automatically.”
I stared at the road.
“Clara, I’ve had that number for more than ten years.”
“I know.”
“And you remembered it?”
“Apparently.”
Something inside me cracked. Somewhere beneath ten years of a completely separate life, my phone number had stayed inside her memory.
“Why mine?”
“I don’t know.”
After a moment, she asked quietly,
“Are Mom and Dad okay?”
“They’re alive.”
“I meant emotionally.”
“I know.”
Mom had called me every Sunday after the accident. Dad had never tried to force me to talk. He would simply sit beside me whenever grief made words impossible. They had helped me survive Clara’s death. While Clara had apparently been alive.
“You remembered my number,” I said. “But you don’t know how Mom and Dad are?”
Clara turned toward the window.
“That’s complicated.”
“Then start explaining.”
When we reached her apartment, another part of me shattered. This wasn’t some temporary room. This was a home. Plants filled the windows. Framed photographs lined the shelves. A yellow mug sat beside the sink. Clara had preferences. Routines. Friends. A life. I picked up a gardening book.
“You hate dirt.”
“I used to.”
“You once killed a cactus.”
Her mouth twitched. Then I saw the photographs. Clara laughing at dinner. Clara kneeling beside a garden. Clara standing beside people I had never seen before. There wasn’t a single photo of me.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Three years.”
“And before that?”
“Farther away.”
I turned toward her.
“Start with the crash.”
Clara sat down.
“I was thrown from the car before it caught fire. Apparently, I wandered after the accident. Another driver found me miles away near a different road.”
“You had no identification?”
“Nothing.”
“And your memory?”
“Almost completely gone.”
She rubbed the silver ring.
“I knew how to use a spoon before I knew my last name.”
I said nothing.
“My first name came back earlier than everything else. But knowing I was Clara didn’t tell me where Clara belonged.”
Memories returned gradually. Fragments. Mom’s yellow kitchen. My voice. Childhood places. Pieces of herself. Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
“When did you remember me?”
Clara looked away.
“Sarah…”
“How long ago?”
“Please.”
“How long, Clara?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Six years.”
I stared at her.
“Six years?”
She nodded.
“You knew who I was six years ago?”
“Yes.”
“You knew I thought you were dead?”
“Yes.”
My hands started trembling.
“Did you call?”
“I tried once.”
“Once?”
“I found Mom and Dad’s old number, but it had been disconnected.”
“And then you just gave up?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I wrote letters.”
My chest tightened.
“Did you send them?”
She lowered her eyes.
“No.”
I grabbed my purse.
“Then those letters weren’t for us, Clara. They were for you.”
She flinched.
“Sarah, please.”
I reached the door.
“I can explain.”
“You had six years to explain.”
Then I walked out. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad that evening. That was one decision Clara wasn’t going to make for me. She had controlled enough of the truth already. That night, I opened a kitchen drawer and found the two blue mugs. One for me. One “spare.” And I suddenly realized I had been buying things in pairs for ten years because some part of me had never completely accepted being alone.
