“No. I haven’t lived anywhere near you.”
“How long have you lived two towns away?”
“A few years.”
I pulled away from the curb.
“So you don’t live here.”
For the first few minutes, neither of us spoke.
When I got scared, I made lists.
That morning, mine held nothing but questions.
Clara broke the silence first.
“I need to tell you something about the call.”
I glanced at her.
Clara broke the silence first.
“What about it?”
“I didn’t know I’d given them your number.”
“What?”
“I was groggy. They asked who they could call, and apparently I gave them yours.”
“Clara, that number is more than ten years old.”
“What about it?”
“I know.”
“You remembered it?”
“Apparently.”
Somewhere inside her, buried under ten years of another life, my number had still been waiting.
“Why mine?”
“I don’t know.”
“You remembered it?”
After a moment, Clara asked, “Are Mom and Dad okay?”
“They’re alive.”
“I meant emotionally.”
“I know.”
Mom, Alita, called every Sunday without asking whether I was “better.” Dad, Jack, was quieter; after the crash, he had simply sat beside me when words failed.
“Are Mom and Dad okay?”
They had helped me survive losing Clara while Clara was still alive.
“You knew my number,” I said.
“Apparently my brain did.”
“But you don’t know whether Mom and Dad are okay.”
She turned toward the window.
“That’s harder to explain.”
“But you don’t know whether Mom and Dad are okay.”
“Then you’d better start soon.”
When we got to her apartment, I understood how completely she’d built a life apart from ours.
There were plants in the windows, framed photographs, and a yellow mug beside the sink.
Clara had a favorite mug.
