“You knew I was alive for six years?”
Then carefully put it back.
“Did you call?”
“I tried once.”
“Once?”
“I found Mom and Dad’s old number. It had been disconnected.”
“So that was it?”
“Did you call?”
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
“I wrote letters.”
“Did you send them?”
She looked down.
“No.”
“I wrote letters.”
“Then you wrote them for yourself, Clara. Not for any of us.”
She flinched.
I grabbed my purse.
“Sarah, wait.”
I reached the door.
“I can explain.”
“Then you wrote them for yourself, Clara.”
I looked back at her.
“You had six years.”
Then I left.
I didn’t call Mom and Dad that night.
That was my decision. Clara had controlled enough of the truth.
At home, I opened a drawer and found my two blue mugs.
I didn’t call Mom and Dad that night.
One for me, one “spare.”
I’d been buying spares for ten years.
***
The next morning, I called Mom.
“Are you sitting down?”
“Sarah, I hate when you start like that.”
“Please.”
One for me, one “spare.”
Her voice changed.
“Okay.”
“Clara’s alive.”
Silence.
Then, carefully, “Sweetheart…”
“I saw her.”
Another silence.
“Sweetheart…”
“She knew about the moon. She knew about the broken vase. It’s her.”
Dad came onto the call.
“What do you need from us?”
Not where, not how, just what do you need?
“I don’t know.”
“Then we’ll start there, sweetheart,” he said.
“She knew about the broken vase. It’s her.”
***
Two days later, I took them to Clara.
Mom stopped inside the apartment.
