We buried what remained.
For twelve years, I believed my final act as Rebecca’s sister had been refusing her money.
My marriage didn’t survive the next five years.
My daughter, Lucy, did.
She was eleven now.
She knew she had an aunt named Rebecca who had died before she was born.
There was a photograph of Rebecca holding my pregnant belly on Lucy’s bookshelf.
And now someone claiming to be that woman was lying in a hospital ninety minutes away.
I didn’t go immediately.
That surprises people when I tell them.
I drove home first.
I made Lucy dinner.
I checked her math homework.
I called my ex-husband and asked whether he could keep her overnight.
Only after Lucy left did I sit at my dining table and call St. Catherine’s back.
Dana answered.
“What happened to the patient?”
“She was admitted after an emergency appendectomy. There were complications, but she’s stable.”
