Chapter 3 - The Apartment
In the parking lot she asked me to take her home.
For one stupid second I thought she meant our parents' house.
"I'll call them," I said, reaching for my phone.
"No." She pressed her hand flat over the screen. "Take me to my apartment first. Please."
"Your apartment."
"Nora—"
"You supposedly died a decade ago, Viv. I'm doing my best to keep up."
She gave me an address in Ashford.
"That's two towns over."
"I know."
"Then why are you at a dentist in Glenport?"
"I cracked a filling and this was the only office that could squeeze me in today."
"So you don't live here."
"No. I've never lived anywhere near you."
I pulled out of the lot. For the first few miles neither of us spoke.
When I'm frightened, I make lists. That morning my list was nothing but questions.
Vivian broke first.
"There's something you should know about that call. I didn't realize I'd given them your number."
"What?"
"I was out of it. They asked who they could call, and I guess I rattled off yours."
"Viv, that number is more than ten years old. You still had it memorized?"
"Apparently."
Somewhere under ten years of a life I knew nothing about, my phone number had survived.
"Why mine?"
"I don't know."
After a mile she asked, "Are Mom and Dad okay?"
"They're alive."
"I meant are they okay."
Our mother, Maren, called me every Sunday and never once asked if I was "better" yet. Our father, Paul, was quieter; after the funeral he'd just sit next to me when there was nothing left to say. Between them, they had walked me through losing Vivian — while Vivian was out there picking a paint color for her kitchen.
"You memorized my number," I said. "But you don't know if our parents are okay."
She turned to the window. "That one's harder to explain."
"Then you'd better start."
Her apartment showed me exactly how completely she'd built a life without us. Plants crowded every windowsill. Framed photos covered a whole wall. A cheerful yellow mug sat drying by the sink.
I picked up a thick gardening book off the coffee table.
"You hate dirt."
"I did. Before."
"You killed a plastic cactus once."
Her mouth twitched.
Then I really looked at the photo wall. Vivian laughing across a dinner table. Vivian on her knees beside a raised garden bed. Vivian with her arm around people I had never seen in my life.
Not one picture of me.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Three years. Farther away before that."
"Start with the crash."
"I was thrown clear before the car went up. I must have walked, because a trucker found me miles away near a different road. Head injury. Nothing on me with a name."
"And your memory?"
"Gone. I could use a fork before I could tell anyone my last name. My first name came back before anything else — but knowing I was Vivian wasn't the same as knowing where Vivian belonged."
"When did you remember me?"
She looked at the floor.
"How long, Viv?"
Her eyes spilled over.
"Six years."
"Six." My voice went flat. "You've known I was alive for six years."
"Yes."
"You knew I thought you were dead. For six years."
"Yes."
I picked her yellow mug up off the drying rack, then set it back down very carefully, because I didn't trust my hands.
"Did you ever call?"
"Once. I found Mom and Dad's old number. It was disconnected."
"And that was it?"
"No. I wrote letters."
"Did you mail them?"
She looked away. "No."
"Then you wrote them for yourself, Vivian. Not for us."
She flinched like I'd slapped her.
I picked up my bag and walked to the door.
"Nora, wait. I can explain."
May you like
I looked back at her. "You had six years."
Then I left.
