“What if I don’t feel anything?”
“Then you don’t.”
“What if I hate her?”
“Then you do.”
“What if I love her?”
Luke smiled gently.
“Seems allowed.”
Clare looked toward Mia sitting in the truck.
“How did Rachel do this?”
“What?”
“Live with uncertainty.”
Luke looked toward the highway.
“She hated uncertainty.”
Clare laughed faintly.
“Really?”
“She reorganized the pantry when she was anxious.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“She alphabetized spices.”
Clare stared.
“That sounds excellent.”
Luke groaned.
“You really are sisters.”
They continued.
Silver Pines was smaller than Clare expected.
Red brick.
Flowerbeds.
Wind chimes hanging outside several windows.
Margaret sat in the common room beside a window, knitting badly.
Her hands trembled enough that the yarn slipped.
A nurse approached.
“Margaret?”
The older woman looked up.
“You have visitors.”
Margaret saw Luke first.
Recognition.
“Luke.”
Luke smiled.
“Hi, Margaret.”
“You drove all this way?”
“Brought somebody.”
Margaret looked toward Mia.
Her face lit.
“Mia.”
Mia ran to her.
“Grandma Margaret!”
Clare stopped in the doorway.
Grandma.
The word hit.
Margaret hugged Mia awkwardly because of her trembling arms.
Then she looked beyond her.
At Clare.
Everything disappeared from her face.
Color.
Expression.
Breath.
The knitting fell to the floor.
Clare could not move.
Margaret whispered one word.
“Claire.”
With an I.
Clare began crying instantly.
Margaret tried to stand.
The nurse reached for her.
Clare crossed the room first.
“Don’t.”
Margaret stopped.
Not because Clare rejected her.
Because Clare needed the distance.
For several seconds they simply looked at each other.
Mother and daughter.
Thirty-four years separated by other people’s choices.
Margaret touched her own mouth.
“You look like Rachel.”
Clare shook her head.
“No.”
Margaret cried.
“You do.”
Clare moved closer.
“Did you give me away?”
Direct.
Luke held his breath.
Margaret answered immediately.
“No.”
No explanation first.
No qualification.
“No.”
Clare stared.
Margaret’s voice broke.
“I would have died before giving you away.”
Then:
“I should have protected you better.”
Clare’s face crumpled.
“You were sick.”
“I was your mother.”
“You were twenty-nine.”
“I was your mother.”
Both could be true.
Clare crouched.
Margaret reached toward her face.
Stopped.
“May I?”
Clare nodded.
Margaret touched Clare’s cheek with a trembling hand.
Her eyes closed.