understand. She’s an addict. Recovered, though. There’s a clarity she wouldn’t have if she were still using. Hello, more guilt. It hurts to see her this way. To know her road has been potholed and cracked.
“I got the things you sent,” I say.
Something akin to a grimace darts in and flickers away so quickly it might not have been there at all. There’s a tension in the air, rubbing like sandpaper on skin.
“The book … remember how many we made?” I say. “Do you still draw?”
“Uh-uh,” she says, looking down, rubbing her palms together as though she’s cold. Her foot ceases its movement.
“You were so good. Everyone said so, remember? The drawing you made of Roxie? I kept it on my wall for a long time,” I say. “It’s still packed away somewhere in my parents’ attic. I think I might’ve loved it as much as I did Roxie.”
Her brows pinch together. The tension grows larger.
“Please be kind,” I say, watching her closely. Something isn’t right here. She isn’t right somehow.
She blinks. Scratches her arm. The frown deepens. She has no idea what I’m talking about. I can understand her forgetting about my old dog, but our catchphrase? It hits me like a punch in the solar plexus. This isn’t Becca. I don’t know who she is or what the hell she’s doing here, but she’s not Becca.
She sits back with her arms folded over her chest. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out.”
“Who are you? Why did you let me think you were Becca?” My chest aches at the cruelty. The callousness.
“I’m Sarah, her mom.”
I go rigid. “That’s not possible. Her mom is—was—Lauren Thomas.”
“No, Lauren was her aunt. I’m Lauren’s sister, Becca’s real mom.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.” And I don’t. Becca had an aunt, I remember that, but she was dead when we were kids. Or so I thought.
“It’s not that hard, doc. I got pregnant when I was fourteen. Lauren was just supposed to take care of Becca until either I got my shit together or my mom finished chemo. Lauren was thirteen years older than me, see. But it didn’t happen like that. And my mom … well, her chemo didn’t work so well.”
My mind is reeling. I can’t make these puzzle pieces fit because I don’t know where the corners are.
“Look,” I say. “You should go. My husband will be back and—”
“The same husband I saw all packed up and leaving?” She stares until I wither beneath the weight. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“So, my sister told Becca I was dead,” she continues. “Guess she thought it was the best thing to do, I don’t know. I did get clean for a little while and I tried to see Becca, but Lauren wouldn’t let me. One Halloween I even tried to take her, but I was a mess then, not even eighteen yet. Lauren and I ended up getting into a pretty ugly fight.”
A piece falls into place, and I say, “The angel.”
“Huh?”
“Becca told me a story about almost being kidnapped by an angel. I thought she made it up.”
Guilt ages her at least five years. In the firelight, she turns skeletal. “She remembered that?”
“At least some of it.”
“Yeah, I thought with the costume Lauren wouldn’t know it was me. Like I said, I was a mess. I was a mess for a really long time. When Becca called me …” She looks off toward the water.
“She called you? When?”
“Yeah, the summer she … disappeared. She found out the truth and she wanted me to come get her. Said things were bad with my sister. The drinking and the hitting. But I couldn’t take care of myself, let alone her and me. She called me a couple times. I kept telling her I couldn’t help. The last time she said I needed to come and get her that night or she might die. But I couldn’t get to her for a couple of nights. I went to her house, figuring I’d talk to Lauren. Maybe she’d let me see Becca.”
Her words are stones in my heart. “Lauren said no, didn’t she?”
“Wrong. No one answered the door. So I left. Then I saw the news, and that was that, right?” Sarah tips her chin down, peeks up through her lashes. Not coquettish, but sneaky.
I meet her gaze as evenly as possible. Keep my composure.
“I would’ve helped if I could,” she says. “I would’ve taken Becca away.” But she looks