Chapter 8
Two years after the hospital, I went back to the reproductive clinic.
Not because I was trying to conceive.
Because they had invited former patients to meet with a counselor about long-term records, and there was one document I wanted corrected.
The original chart still contained a note saying:
PATIENT DECLINED FURTHER EVALUATION.
I had never declined.
Luke had spoken for me.
The clinic administrator apologized and explained that they could add an amendment.
“What would you like it to say?”
I had thought about that sentence all week.
“Patient was not informed of recommendation at the time.”
The administrator typed it.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
I took a breath.
“Patient later reviewed information independently.”
She added the sentence.
There.
Two lines.
Nothing dramatic.
No declaration.
No speech.
But when I walked outside, I felt lighter.
Rebecca was waiting across the street at a café.
“You did it?”
“Yes.”
“How does it feel?”
“Like correcting a typo that took eleven years.”
She laughed.
Then she slid a folded brochure toward me.
“What’s this?”
“Before you panic, it has nothing to do with doctors.”
I opened it.
A photograph of a lake filled the front.
CABINS — HIKING — AUTUMN WEEKENDS.
I looked at her.
“Vacation?”
“Remember Lake Arden?”
Of course I remembered.
Our parents took us there every summer until we were teenagers.
We caught tiny fish.
Burned marshmallows.
Our mother sang badly around the fire.
Dad pretended he knew how to navigate and got lost on the same trail every year.
“We haven’t been since Mom died,” I said.
“I know.”
“Why now?”
Rebecca shrugged.
“Because I keep waiting for life to become officially uncomplicated before doing things.”
“And?”
“I’m beginning to suspect that day isn’t scheduled.”
I smiled.
“When?”
“October.”
“I’ll go.”
“That easily?”
“That easily.”
The lake looked smaller than I remembered.
Most childhood places do.
The cabins had been renovated.
The general store sold expensive coffee.
The dock where Rebecca once dropped Dad’s fishing pole into the water had been replaced.
But the mountains were the same.
On our second morning, we walked the old trail.
Rebecca brought a map.
“You know Dad would consider that cheating.”
“Dad spent three hours insisting north had moved.”
“Fair.”
At the overlook, we sat on a wooden bench.
Below us, the lake reflected the orange trees.
Rebecca pulled two apples from her backpack.
“Mom used to bring those awful peanut-butter crackers.”
“I loved those.”
“You had questionable taste.”
“I still do.”
“I’ve seen your blue sofa.”
I nudged her shoulder.
For a while we ate in silence.
Then Rebecca said, “I need to tell you something.”
I turned toward her.
Her expression was serious.
I immediately thought something was wrong.
“What?”
“I almost stopped calling.”
The confession was so ordinary that it took me a moment to understand.
“When?”
“About five years before the hospital.”
I looked at the lake.
“Why?”
“I was tired.”
She swallowed.
“I would leave messages. Mail letters. Try old friends. And every time I got nothing back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m telling you because I spent a long time presenting myself as the sister who never gave up.”
“You didn’t.”
“I almost did.”
She picked at the apple stem.
“I thought maybe Luke was telling the truth. Maybe you really didn’t want me in your life.”
My chest tightened.
“What changed your mind?”
“Mom.”
I stared at her.
“Mom was dead.”
“I know.”
Rebecca smiled faintly.
“When we were kids and you got mad, you never stopped talking.”
“That’s your evidence?”
“You wrote six-page letters explaining why you were furious.”
I laughed.
“You once slid a formal complaint under my bedroom door because I borrowed your sweater.”
“You stretched it.”
“I was fourteen.”
“It was cashmere.”
Rebecca laughed too.
Then she became serious again.
“You didn’t disappear from people. Even when you were angry, you explained. Loudly. Repeatedly. Sometimes with footnotes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“So when I suddenly vanished…”
“It didn’t fit.”
She looked at me.
“That was all I had for a while. Just the fact that the silence didn’t sound like you.”
Tears stung my eyes.
“You knew me.”
May you like
“I tried to.”
“You did.”
