I picked up a gardening book.
“You hate dirt.”
Clara had a favorite mug.
“I did. Before.”
“You killed a cactus.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then I saw the photographs.
Clara laughing at dinner.
Clara kneeling beside a garden bed.
Clara standing with people I’d never met.
There wasn’t one picture of me.
Clara standing with people I’d never met.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Three years.”
“And before that?”
“Farther away.”
“Okay. Start from the crash.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“I was thrown clear before the car burned. I must have wandered after the crash because a driver found me miles away near another road. I had a head injury and nothing on me that identified me.”
“And your memory?”
“Bad. I knew how to use a spoon before I knew my own last name.”
Clara rubbed her ring.
“My first name came back before the rest did. Knowing I was Clara wasn’t the same as knowing where Clara belonged.”
“And your memory?”
“Like what?”
“Mom’s yellow kitchen. You singing badly in the shower.”
“That was you.”
“Absolutely not.”
I almost smiled.
“When did you remember me?”
“That was you.”
“Sarah.”
“How long?”
“Please.”
“How long, Clara?”
Her eyes filled.
“Six years.”
“How long, Clara?”
“Six?”
She nodded.
“You knew I was alive for six years?”
“Yes.”
“You knew I thought you were dead?”
“Yes.”
I picked up her mug.
